


Break Room

by caloriebomb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Belly Kink, Feeding Kink, M/M, Multi, Situational Humiliation, Threesome - F/M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26006647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: Draco Malfoy is glad to get a job at the Ministry of Magic as one of their Cursebreakers. He's not so glad to find himself sharing a break room with his old nemesis, Harry Potter, now Head Auror.Obviously, then he starts making Harry enormous quantities of food and they fall in love, blah blah blah, if you know my fic then you know what to expect LOL.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 196





	1. Draco

**Author's Note:**

> God knows why I'm writing Harry Potter fic for the first time ever??? Maybe because I'm mad at JK Rowling and want to make her characters do unspeakably kinky things to each other? I genuinely cannot explain this. 
> 
> Anyway, you're welcome for the garbage, I hope you gobble it up like the good little raccoons you are. This fic is just all egregious overeating and Harry Potter getting fat and Draco Malfoy loving it. It's as silly as anything I've ever written.
> 
> There's also an accidental threesome with Pansy Parkinson that made its way in completely unannounced and is weirdly the most graphic part of the fic... I'll put it in its own chapter for anyone who's like, Ew, no.

The new office had potential. 

At least, that’s what Draco tried to tell himself as he stood in the doorway and took in the cramped, cobwebby room he’d been given, so tiny he suspected it might have begun life as a supply closet. But he’d never had his own office before, and besides, there was a window. So long as he had natural light Draco could work with anything. Mentally he began throwing out the hideously functional furniture and replacing it with pieces more befitting the Ministry’s new (and only) Curse Historian – he’d put in a new desk with a slimmer, more contemporary profile, replace the metal filing cabinet with wood, put down a nice kilim rug and –

“Mr. Malfoy? Is there, er, something else you needed?”

Surprised, Draco glanced to the timid-looking young witch at his elbow. He was technically part of the Cursebreaker’s team and she, apparently, was their collective intern, barely out of Hogwarts. He’d forgotten she was there. “Yes,” he said. “Coffee.”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s not really my –”

“I don’t mean you should fetch it,” he said. “I just want to know where it is and how to get it.”

“Right, of course,” she said. “If you want to put your things down, I can show you the break room, it’s just down the hall.”

Draco’s only “thing” to put down was his coat. He dropped it onto the scarred maple surface of the desk, then gave the wood a slightly guilty pat -- it had no idea it would soon be kindling. He followed the little witch through the dark, narrow hallway, noting the name placards on each of the offices and wondering if every space was as shabby as his, or if they reserved their shabbiest offerings for former Death Eaters. Unconsciously he found his fingers straying to his arm, to where the Dark Mark still lurked livid beneath his robes despite the many tattoos he’d gotten to cover it, and when he noticed what he was doing, he dropped his hand with a scowl. This was a new job, technically, but with a name like Malfoy, he knew he could never hope to really be new anywhere. His old self, his old life, trotted after him wherever he went, looming like a restless shadow, so anyone who wanted to see him as he was now would have to squint into the darkness. Few people made the attempt. 

“We share the break room with the aurors,” the little witch was saying. “Technically it’s in their department but they’re quite good about letting us use it whenever we want. Only…” she hesitated. “The Head Auror is – he’s a bit of a – a—” 

“Prat?” Draco suggested.

“No! No, not at all. It’s just, he’s rather famous, and sometimes we get people from other departments sneaking in here to try and talk to him, so there’s sort of an elaborate charm set up to let people in and out, and it’s asked that you don’t bring guests. We’ll have to add you to the magical profile. Mr. Malfoy? It’s right through here…”

Draco had stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, one hand on the wall to steady himself. A horrible buzz was sounding in his ears. Surely he would know if – surely he would have heard…? He said, “The Head Auror. His name.”

The little witch flushed and darted a glance down the hall, though she looked excited despite herself. “It’s – and he’s actually so nice, he signed a card for my mum’s birthday last week, I felt so silly asking but it absolutely made her week, she –”

“What. Is. His. Name?”

Breathlessly, she confirmed what he already suspected. “It’s Harry Potter!”

And with that death knell, she flung open the door to the auror’s department, grabbed his arm, and ushered him in.

Draco barely registered the wide, comfortable room they’d stepped into, with its sofas and tables and coffee makers. He was still reeling. Of course, of course Potter was here, on the first day of this job Draco had been so grateful to get, and not only was he here, he was Head Auror at only twenty-eight, miles above Draco’s own weak standing as Junior Cursebreaker. Clearly Potter hadn’t lost his penchant for using his own celebrity to get what he wanted. Draco savored the small, bitter thought, letting it distract him from the knowledge that Shadow Draco growing more solid with every step he took. Potter would see to it that everyone knew exactly who he was, who he’d been, what he’d done. He took a deep, steadying breath, and tried on a mental shrug. Well, fine, it was nothing he didn’t deserve. He was glad for the job; a social life had been too much to hope for. 

“—and for cappuccino, it’s three flicks to the right,” the intern was saying. They were standing at the coffee maker, and Draco blinked. He’d missed the entire demonstration, but that hardly mattered. He’d bring his own coffee from now on, the better to avoid this place, to avoid Potter. Although, since he was here…

“Would you mind showing me again how to make espresso?”

He may as well take advantage while he could. 

:::

Draco’s first few weeks at the Ministry were without incident. It was very odd, to be working in such an official capacity after so many years of freelance work, of taking whatever jobs he could find. After his father had died in prison, he and his mother had begun painstakingly cataloguing and selling off the contents of Malfoy Manor, a years-long process that had not only amassed them a certain amount of liquid wealth, but also accidentally made Draco into something of an expert on removing ancient curses. It had turned out that the majority of the Malfoy’s heirlooms were not only very old and very expensive, but also very hexed to react poorly to any non-Malfoy – not ideal, obviously, for selling off. After five years spent breaking centuries-old curses on vases, wardrobes, spoons and more under his mother’s highly critical eye, Draco had decided it was time to leave the nest, and bought a flat in London. He was surprised to find that he’d gotten something of a reputation for the man to see in ancient cursework, and the jobs had come thick and fast. Still, it had been a bit of a shock when the Ministry had reached out. 

He didn’t, technically, need the money. Not yet. But the truth of the matter is that he was lonely. Working in an office, surrounded by other people – even if those other people did not like him – appealed. So he’d taken the job. 

Cursebreaking had ten employees, the youngest of whom had only overlapped with Draco one year in school. He was embarrassingly grateful for this, that none of his new co-workers had known him at Hogwarts, though of course they knew who he was and treated him with a kind of willful tolerance that was a cousin to condescension. Still, they were polite and did not loathe him outright, which was honestly more than he had hoped for. 

For his part, he tried to stay quiet, keep his head down, do his work. And avoid the break room at all costs. 

In his fifth week, his co-worker Sheila turned up at his office and took a moment looking around the tiny room, thick black eyebrows raised.

“Jesus, Malfoy, what’re you doing in Curses? You ought to be a home decorator, look at this place!”

Draco smiled tightly, waiting for her to state her business and hurry along, but she wasn’t done. 

“Honestly,” she said, turning wide eyes on him. “Would you come round and have a look at mine sometime, give me a bit of advice? Maybe if my office looked like this, I’d come closer to matching your stats.”

It took Draco a second to realize she wasn’t mocking him, and he felt his tight smile loosen, surprised. “Oh,” he said. “I – certainly. I’d be glad to.”

“Anyway,” Sheila said, running an admiring finger over the walnut bookshelf in the corner, “it’s Giggy’s birthday and we’re having cake in the break room. Come and join us, won’t you?”

Draco hesitated. He’d managed to avoid the aurors for over a month – but this was the first invitation anyone had offered him in Merlin knew how long, and he was too pleased to refuse it. “I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

He sat in the break room for a whole hour, quietly eating cake, drinking (tragically excellent) coffee, and listening to his coworkers banter – and in all that time, he didn’t see a single auror. 

Emboldened, he crept into the breakroom the following day and made himself a cappuccino, and again, saw no one but Sheila and Giggy, drinking lattes. 

“Oh, the aurors are usually out in the field this time of day,” said Giggy, when Draco mentioned it. “They usually don’t come back until around four, just in time to mangle some paperwork. Avoiding them, are you? Good call. Loud, braggy, aggressive.”

“Giggy’s married to one,” Sheila said. 

“Mine’s the worst of the lot,” Giggy said with satisfaction. 

This information cheered Draco immensely; the coffee here really was outstanding. It was with total confidence and security that he breezed into the breakroom the very next afternoon, happily flicked his wand for a cappuccino, heard the creak of a door, and turned to find himself staring at Harry fucking Potter. 

His first thought was that Potter looked exactly the same. 

His second thought was that Potter looked completely different. 

Both things managed to somehow be true at once. The hair was the same, wavy black chaos, and the eyes were the same, big and green behind the same terrible glasses. The basic face was the same. But Potter… there was no other way to describe it… Potter had grown up. He looked like a man, not a boy. His shoulders were broader, and though he was still thin – too thin – there was something sturdy about him, too, as if his stubbornness had etched itself into every line of his body. His jawline, sharp and strong, was covered with dark stubble. He’d gotten… oh, gods damn it. He’d gotten hot. 

“Malfoy?” Potter said, sounding just as shocked to see Draco as Draco was to see him. 

“Obviously,” Draco said. 

“What are you –” Potter looked around him, as if expecting to see Crabbe and Goyle. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” Draco said. “In cursebreaking.”

Potter was still staring at him, and Draco reached for his cappuccino, trying not to wonder – or care – how he himself had changed. He hoped, for the sake of his pride, that he’d improved, too. 

“Coffee?” he asked, poising his wand over the machine.

“I – yes.”

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Both. Lots. I forgot my lunch.” Potter had been frozen in the doorway, but now he began to make his way across the room, warily, as if approaching a wild animal. “How – er, how have you been?”

“Fine,” Draco said crisply. He held out the freshly-made cup of heavily-sugared coffee and after a second Potter took it. He’d added another scar to match the one on his forehead, Draco saw, this one a fine white line cutting through his lower lip, and Draco watched as he licked coffee from it. 

“It’s good,” Potter murmured. “Thanks.”

“I was told aurors were out in the mornings,” Draco said, then winced. He didn’t want Potter to know he was avoiding him; didn’t want him to know he still held any power over Draco whatsoever. But Potter only nodded. 

“I’m stuck in the office doing paperwork,” he said glumly. “If I’d known how bloody much there’d be, I never would’ve accepted this position.”

“Can’t you do as you used to and fob it off to Granger?” Draco said, and Potter let out a startled laugh. 

“Can you imagine,” Potter said. “Excuse me, Minister, if you wouldn’t mind filling out a report on how much toilet paper the auror department used last week, thanks so much, I’m sure you’ve time for it.”

“Do you really have to report on that?” Draco said, horrified.

“Oh, we’ve got to report on everything,” Potter said officiously, then relented with another laugh. “No, actually, the janitorial staff handles the toilet paper. Anyway – thanks for the coffee.”

“Yes, I really went out of my way,” Draco said drily, and Potter let out another startled-sounding laugh. 

“Right,” he said. “Well.” He hoisted the cup in Draco’s direction. “This was… weird.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to laugh, surprised at the honesty. “Yes.”

Potter peered at him through his glasses, those green eyes resting on his face with a kind of soft curiosity. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around.”

You most certainly will not, Draco thought. I’m never coming back here again. 

:::

But to his own surprise, he did. He went back the very next day, lunch sack in hand, and found Potter glaring at the coffee machine. 

“What’s it done to you?” Draco said. 

“I can’t remember the wand pattern to make it start,” Potter said. “And I’m too embarrassed to ask my secretary, I’ll never hear the end of it. I forgot my lunch again and now, no coffee…” He looked positively morose. 

“Sit,” Draco ordered, and felt an odd flicker of pleasure at seeing how quickly Potter obeyed him. A moment later the coffee machine spat out an incredibly rich, sugary concoction of chocolate and caramel, topped with a quivering mound of whipped cream. 

“What is this?” Potter said doubtfully, though he immediately poked a finger into the whipped cream and licked it off. Draco found he had to look away from this sight. 

“Calories,” Draco said. “From what I remember, you didn’t have lunch yesterday, either.”

“Feeding himself’s not his strong suit,” said a willowy blond witch, head appearing suddenly around the door to the auror’s department. “Sir, bit of a situation…”

Potter popped keenly to his feet, and the witch added, “… with the copy-spell. All your reports are coming out in French.”

Potter looked supremely disappointed, as if he’d been hoping for a more pressing emergency. “Ah,” he said. “Thanks Wendy. I’ll see to it after lunch.”

Wendy pointed to his drink. “That’s not lunch, that’s dessert. Go down to the cafeteria and get some real food for once, wouldn’t you?” She looked at Draco in exasperation, as if they were allies. “I tried to give him my sandwich,” she said, “but he wouldn’t have it. It’s that hero complex of his.”

Potter flushed. “I don’t have a –”

Wendy closed the door on him. Potter rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, looking resigned. 

“Masterful leadership,” Draco drawled. “I can tell they really respect you around here.”

“I’m no good at bossing,” Potter said. 

“Or at eating, apparently,” Draco said, who was very good at bossing indeed. His own lunch sack was still in his hand and to his shock, he found himself holding it out. “Go on,” he said. “I make a brisket that will absolutely destroy you.”

“No,” Potter said, eyes wide. They really were a remarkable shade of green, like fresh grass. “I couldn’t take your lunch.”

“I’m leaving early today anyway,” Draco said, which was perfectly true. He was picking up his mother at the Manor and taking her to an appointment at St. Mungo’s; her arthritis had been bothering her. “I’ll eat as soon as I’m out.”

“I couldn’t,” Potter repeated, but more doubtfully this time. Draco rolled his eyes. He ought to leave it be, ought to turn and go, but Potter really did look too thin, his jawline sharp, his t-shirt hanging from those broad shoulders as on a clothes hanger. And why should Draco care? It was good office politics, he told himself. If he wanted to get ahead – if he ever wanted to make a damn friend – it was in his best interest to keep Potter from badmouthing him left and right. How could he badmouth if his mouth was full?

“I’ll just leave this here,” he said, putting the sack on the table. “If you want to let it go to waste, well, that’s your business.”

He turned to leave, and didn’t look back. But he did allow himself a small smile as he heard the crinkling of a brown paper bag. 

:::

That night, after he’d dropped his mother back at the manor, Draco made an absolutely enormous supper. Lasagna, garlic bread, buttered spinach, treacle tart for dessert. Cooking was something he’d always left to house elves growing up, but over the years of living alone he’d found it was something he quite enjoyed, and what’s more, he was good at it. He barely made a dent during his own dinner before he began packing it up for the next day’s lunch: one small portion in one brown bag, and one considerably larger portion in a bag he labeled “Potter.” 

As he worked, he congratulated himself on his savvy business sense. Get on Potter’s good side, somehow, and he wouldn’t have to worry about office gossip anymore. For all the nasty things he could say about Potter – and there was plenty – he knew one thing for certain: the man protected his friends. Draco had only ever been on the other side of that fierce protectiveness – he’d always been the one Potter was protecting _against_. But maybe, just maybe, he could turn that around and use it to his advantage, for once. 

After all, everyone knew the way to a man’s heart was to his stomach. 

Not that hearts had anything to do with making Potter lunch. No, this was purely tactical. 

Potter was in the break room again the next day, nursing a cup of whip-topped coffee and looking towards the door – almost as if he’d been waiting for Draco, expecting him. When he saw him, he grinned. 

“Thanks for lunch yesterday,” he said. “It was amazing, I felt absolutely revived. And I – what’s this?”

“More lunch,” Draco said.

Potter raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

Draco had planned to say something cutting and breezy about the thinness of Potter’s underfed frame, but instead he found himself saying, “I’m not like I was at school.”

Potter’s hand, already closing around the paper sack, stilled. There was a moment’s silence and then Potter said, “Nor am I.”

That wasn’t what Draco had expected. “You have every right to hate me,” he tried.

“But I don’t hate you,” Potter said. He said it so simply that Draco was momentarily at a loss for words. 

“The things I did,” he said. “The people I – the person I – Dumbledore –”

Potter flinched slightly at the name, like the twinge of an old wound. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I could go back in time and… and…”

“Wring my neck?”

A weak laugh. “Yes. To, er, to put it mildly. But Malfoy… the war, it was… we all did things we regret. I’m not saying I’m happy with what you did, who you were – how could I be? But...” He tightened his jaw as if about to say something difficult, and Draco braced himself. “But I forgive you. I forgave you in the Room of Requirement, when I saved your life.”

An old, bitter part of Draco hissed at this. Trust Potter to bring that up, to glorify himself and humiliate Draco. But a newer, better part of Draco managed to look Potter in the eye, to see that he wasn’t trying to win points or one-up or humiliate: he was simply stating the truth. 

“Thank you for that,” Draco said. 

The silence was uncomfortable. Potter began shredding the brown lunch sack nervously and Draco turned to the coffee maker, heart thudding strangely in his ears. 

“So you needn’t make me lunch!” Potter burst out, too loudly. He was never one for silence. “It’s all wiped clean between us, you don’t have to butter me up.”

“Actually, most of that’s olive oil,” Draco said blandly, gesturing. “Except on the garlic bread.”

“Garlic bread?” Potter said, brightening, and he peeped into the bag. “Oh gods. This looks…”

“Are you fond of cheesecake?” Draco said. “I have a recipe I’ve been meaning to try.”

“Malfoy…”

Draco stood very straight, fixing his expression into what his mother called the Unmovable Malfoy and willing Potter to understand. He might not be asking for atonement, but Draco needed to give it. It was a truth he hadn’t quite realized until this very moment. 

“Yes,” Potter said eventually. “Yes, I like cheesecake. I like everything.”

“Good,” Draco said briskly. “Your hair’s already full-on scarecrow, best not to tempt fate by skipping meals.”

Potter skimmed a hand over that mess of unruly black hair, and smiled. 

:::

So began a routine: each night Draco would go home, consult his cookbooks, and whip up the most impressive meal he could manage, and each afternoon he’d take it to the breakroom for Potter. Most days, Potter was in the field around lunchtime, so Draco would leave his lunch with Wendy. She turned out to be not only Potter’s secretary, but a horrible, delicious gossip, and soon enough Draco was bringing her lunch, as well.

“How come you always give Harry twice as much as me?” Wendy said, looking into their separate bags. 

“Because I’m relatively certain he doesn’t eat dinner,” Draco said. 

“I couldn’t handle those portions anyway,” Wendy said. “Look at this slice of cake you’ve given him! It’s as big as his big head. Anyway, he eats dinner twice a week, at least.” She leaned in close, with her gossip-face on. “Did you know he’s best friends with the Minister herself?”

“I’d heard something about that,” Draco said, grinning. 

“Well, of course, you’re the type who’s up on history.” Wendy nodded smartly. “Anyway, the Minister’s got this house-husband, does all the cleaning and cooking, apparently he’s a real gourmand. Harry’s at theirs twice a week, getting stuffed to the gills.”

Something about this expression made Draco’s mouth go dry. “How do you know?”

“He’s always whinging about it the next morning. Oh, shouldn’t have had that last slice of tart, that sort of thing. The sweet tooth on that man…” she clucked her tongue.

Draco could not quite say why, but suddenly what he wanted most in the world was to make Potter whinge in this exact manner. The lunches he’d been cooking were generous, certainly, but they weren’t overgenerous, weren’t stuffed-to-the-gills generous, and out of nowhere Draco felt this was an absolute travesty. Ronald Weasley, a gourmand? Please. If he was coaxing Potter to stuff himself twice a week, Draco could surely do him one better and make it a nice, round five days a week. 

He was pleased to find Potter in the breakroom the next day, and even more pleased when he saw Potter’s eyes grow wide at the spread Draco’d brought him. He’d wrapped up an entire pan of five-cheese fettucini with a half a loaf of cheddar focaccia smeared with most of a stick of butter, plus a heavily-dressed walnut and bleu cheese salad – but that was nothing compared to dessert. Two heavy fudge brownies, two enormous sugar cookies, and a gigantic slice of lemon-iced pound cake.

“Merlin,” Potter breathed. “What’s the occasion?”

“Had a dinner party last night,” Draco half-lied. His mother had been over, anyway. “Too many leftovers.”

Potter was already tucking into the cake, dessert first like a giant child, and Draco watched him, wondering how much he’d be able to finish. Perhaps Draco was imagining it, but Potter didn’t look as underfed as he had just a month ago: an observation that filled Draco with a strange, urgent feeling he didn’t want to examine too closely. Instead he stared as Potter polished off the cake and ate the two sugar cookies in rapid succession, then began twirling great forkfuls of pasta and shoveling them in. He always looked so serious and concentrated when he ate, slightly hunched as if someone were going to snatch it away from him. 

“Long morning?” Draco said. 

“Yeah, chased a guy nearly a mile on foot before I caught him, no wonder I’m so hungry.”

Draco frowned, finding he did not like the thought of Potter burning calories he couldn’t afford to lose. He pushed the buttered loaf closer and was gratified when Potter picked up a thick slice and began sopping up the cream sauce. 

“Better than paperwork, I suppose,” Draco said. 

“You’ll think I’m mental,” Potter said, reaching for his second slice of focaccia, “but I’ve actually started to like paperwork a bit. Don’t tell anyone. Maybe I’ve had enough adventure for one lifetime, you know?”

Draco did know. “I don’t think you’re mental.”

Potter paused and swallowed his mouthful, then pushed his glasses up his nose and gave Draco an odd, considering look. “We both of us had a time, didn’t we?”

“I don’t know how you can compare our experience,” Draco said stiffly. 

Potter shrugged, forking up more pasta. “We were both pawns, in a way. Working for forces that shoved us around. Neither of us really had a choice.”

Draco hadn’t thought of it this way. He hmmmed noncommittally. Potter was really making inroads, done with the pasta already and ripping himself another buttery hunk of bread, swirling it around the cheesy sauce and lifting the dripping hunk to his lips. 

“Don’t forget your vegetables,” Draco said, gesturing to the salad, which was ninety percent cheese. Potter let out a soft sigh. 

“Might be too full for that,” he said. “I’ll have it later.”

“You’ll have it now,” Draco said. He hadn’t meant to, it had just come out, and he and Potter both went still. Frantically he tried to think of a joke, a way to play it off, but a moment later Potter gave a terse nod and began eating the salad. 

“Really am full,” Potter commented, finishing the salad with a little grunt. “I should save some room for dinner or I’ll insult Ron.”

“Aren’t you worried about insulting me?” Draco said. He handed Potter the last slice of buttered cheese-bread and Potter looked up, his eyes meeting Draco’s. He looked tired and full and intrigued. He took the slice of bread and ate it slowly, leaning back in his chair as he did so. It definitely wasn’t Draco’s imagination: he was filling out his shirt better than he had been. It fit him perfectly now, and it was all Draco’s doing. Well, and perhaps Ron Weasley, but Draco batted that thought away like he would an annoying fly. 

How long would it take, Draco wondered, until the shirt didn’t fit again? Until instead of being too loose, it was too tight? His toes curled of their own accord. 

Potter was breathing heavily, glasses slid down his nose and the scar on his lip somehow more pronounced after all the exercise his mouth had gotten. 

“How did that happen?” Draco said, touching the place on his own lip. Potter’s eyes followed his finger and lingered there for a moment. 

“Goblin hex,” Potter said. “Couldn’t talk for a week.”

“Or eat, probably.”

“Or eat.”

“Well, you should make up for it now,” Draco said, and handed Potter one of the two rich brownies; all that remained of the frankly immense lunch. He had not expected Potter to finish everything, but now he was so close it seemed a shame to let him off without completing the meal. 

“I can’t,” Potter protested. “I’m absolutely packed.”

But Draco was realizing something about Potter, something very important. 

The man liked taking orders. He was not, as he’d said, good at bossing – but he was very, very good at being bossed. 

“You most certainly can,” Draco said. “And what’s more, you will.”

“Malfoy,” Potter groaned, but he took the brownie and doggedly began eating it, as if he couldn’t help himself. Draco found that his own breath was coming a bit short, and he sat up straighter, trying to regulate it, trying not to let on that he was… 

Admit it, Draco… 

He was getting off on this. 

Because that was the truth. Watching Potter eat was undeniably erotic, and the more he ate, the more erotic it was. When he picked up the last brownie of his own accord and, panting, started to chew, Draco had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. 

When he’d finished, he slumped forward in his chair, elbows on the table, black hair hanging in his eyes. Even through the fabric of his shirt, Draco could see the slight outward bow of his flat belly, packed so full it was trying to expand its territory. 

“Fuck,” Potter said. “You’re a menace.”

Draco pointed his wand at the table, and the array of dishes and crumbs and droplets of sauce disappeared. “What do you want tomorrow?” he asked. 

“Oh, Merlin, I can’t think of that right now.”

“There must be something you’d like,” Draco said. “Something I haven’t cooked yet.”

Potter shook his head, eyes half-closed against the discomfort he must be feeling. Then he said, “Butter chicken. Can you make that?”

“Of course.”

“With rice,” Potter said.

“Naturally, Potter, I’m not an imbecile.”

“And those little fried dough balls,” Potter said. “In honey? You know those?”

Draco did. He also knew rice pudding and samosa and pakora, all of which Potter would be having for lunch tomorrow. 

“I feel –" Potter paused, tonguing his lip scar lightly, unconsciously. Draco swallowed hard. “Full,” Potter finished.


	2. Harry

“Hungry tonight,” Ron commented, watching Harry scoop his fourth serving of macaroni and cheese. 

“Starved,” Harry agreed, and he was, though there was absolutely no reason for it. Malfoy had made him another absolute spread that afternoon, a homemade pepperoni pizza and mozzarella sticks and a thermos full of creamy tomato soup, plus three thick slices of toffee pudding and a half pint of vanilla ice cream, and Harry had eaten every last drop, as he always did. Something about the excellence of Malfoy’s cooking, and the odd, sideways manner in which Malfoy watched him, and the peremptory orders Malfoy gave him… it all made him so damn _hungry_. 

Until, of course, it made him so damn full. 

He’d had to hang back from a series of planned interviews with suspects that afternoon, too full to go anywhere; had instead locked the door of his office and popped the button on his jeans, thinking maybe he should start wearing robes to work, if he planned to eat like this at every meal.

Which apparently, he did. Because here he was six hours later, four servings deep in macaroni with both Ron and Hermione looking at him curiously as he helped himself to another thickly-buttered slice of bread, his fifth. Harry paused briefly to ask himself whether he was still hungry, found the answer was a resounding no, and shrugged, pushing the bread into his mouth anyway. He’d gotten into the habit of eating what was in front of him. 

There was also that voice in his head, that smooth, slightly snide voice, telling him to go on, have one more bite, go on. 

“There’s dessert,” Hermione said. “Ron’s made strawberry shortcake.”

“Grand,” Harry panted. 

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to fit it all in, mate,” Ron said.

“That a,” Harry paused for air, “challenge?”

“It most certainly is not,” Hermione said sharply, but Ron, of course, was grinning, and a few minutes later he was egging Harry on as he spooned biscuit, strawberries and cream into his mouth. 

“This is ridiculous,” Hermione said, though she was watching with undisguised interest, chin propped on her hand. “Harry, you’re sweating.”

It was true, there were beads of sweat on his forehead from the effort and, if he was honest, from the pain. His jeans were unbuttoned again but he still felt squished into them, and the sensitive skin of his taut belly was rubbing uncomfortably against his t-shirt. He was full up to his very lungs, glasses sliding down his damp nose and pulse pounding in his ears. 

“Here,” Ron said generously, adding another scoop of sugared berries and another mound of whipped cream to Harry’s plate. “Have a bit more.”

“Oh, you two are impossible,” Hermione said fondly, finally standing up. She dropped a kiss on Ron’s forehead. “I’m going to the study to work for a bit. Harry, come say goodbye before you go.”

Ron paused from watching Harry in order to watch his wife leave the room, smiling after her in that slightly googly-eyed which made Harry both deeply pleased and deeply jealous. He hadn’t looked at anyone like that since Ginny.

By the time Ron had turned back around, Harry had cleared his plate and was leaned back in his chair, one hand resting gingerly on his aching belly. 

“Can we move to the sitting room?” Harry begged. “I need a lie-down.”

“You need a firewhisky,” Ron said. 

“That, too.”

Ron magicked away the dishes and Harry stood with a groan, making his way to the green velvet couch and throwing himself down onto it. Lying down, half-supported on the cushions, he could see the gentle swell of his packed stomach rising from between the unbuttoned flaps of his jeans, and he tugged his shirt up a bit, too, just enough that he could lay a warm palm across it soothingly. With his other hand, he knocked his glass of firewhisky against Ron’s and took a warming sip. Immediately he began to feel a bit less nauseous. 

“You’ve put on some weight,” Ron said, looking curiously at Harry’s swollen belly.

“That’s dinner,” Harry said. 

Ron snorted. “No, that’s a stone. And you’ve been eating me out of house and home lately. Did you get hit with a curse, or something?”

Harry flicked his wand and a pillow flew at Ron’s head, which he deflected easily, laughing. Harry patted his poor belly thoughtfully. “Have I really, though? Put on a stone, I mean.”

“You haven’t noticed?”

Harry considered this. “Yes and no. I did notice my trousers haven’t been fitting very well.”

“Not surprising, the way you’ve been at it.” Ron got a crafty look on his face that Harry did not like one bit. “Malfoy still bringing you lunch?”

He never should have mentioned it. “Now and again,” he hedged, though of course the real answer was yes, every day. 

“Is he a better cook than me?” Ron demanded. 

Harry tried to laugh, but it hurt too much, and he settled for a laughlike puff of air. “That’s what he asks about you.”

“Well?”

“You’re both excellent,” Harry said honestly. “I couldn’t pick. I’m lucky I don’t have to.”

“Can’t imagine it,” Ron marveled, not for the first time. “Malfoy in the kitchen.”

Harry could imagine it, and in fact had. Malfoy, tall and slim, his blond hair shorter than it had been at school, that one gold earring he wore winking as he moved around the kitchen, maybe barefoot, sleeves rolled up to show tattooed forearms, the Dark Mark nearly hidden amongst flowers and leaves. Scowling at the pan when it didn’t do exactly as he wanted. Smirking in satisfaction when it did. 

“He’s different,” Harry said. “I mean, it’s strange – his personality’s essentially the same, only… pleasant.”

“Malfoy, pleasant?” Ron pursed his lips and pretended to think. “Nah, can’t picture it.”

Harry let out a soft belch, which turned into a sigh. “Well,” he said, “that’s me done, sorry, this is my couch now.”

“No, no, no,” Ron said. “You’re not sleeping here again, bugger off to your own house.”

Harry gave him wide, pleading eyes. “But it’s spooky.”

“I’m not having Kreacher waking me up at four in the morning again, shouting at me for kidnapping you,” Ron said. “No.”

Harry let out another shallow sigh. The thought of Kreacher cheered him a bit – or rather, the thought of Kreacher’s pancakes and bacon, which he was planning to have for breakfast tomorrow. “Fine,” he said. “Tell Hermione I said goodbye, would you? There’s no way I’m making it upstairs in this state.”

“Will you be all right apparating home? I could set up the floo.”

Harry waved him off and managed to sit upright. He tugged his shirt down and stroked a hand over the tight curve of his belly, thinking of all he’d put into it that day. He’d eaten enough for three people, easily, and here he was, anticipating breakfast. Quite a change from the weeks before Malfoy had come back into his life, when dinner was often the only meal he managed to eat with any regularity, to his house elf’s supreme distress. Kreacher was a lot happier now that Harry had started eating breakfast again – it was, for reasons unknown, the elf’s own favorite meal of the day, and also the only meal for which they both fully agreed on timing. Kreacher was old and devoted to the five o’clock supper so he could be in bed by eight, while Harry preferred to dine later. Often Kreacher charmed his dinner to stay warm and Harry would eat it alone by the fire instead of at the table with his elf, and that, too, had contributed to how thin he’d let himself get: he never managed to eat much when he was eating alone.

“Thanks again for dinner,” Harry said. 

“See you Thursday, yeah?” Ron said. “I’ll do a roast, you can stuff yourself silly on those mashed potatoes you love.”

“Sounds good.”

It did sound good, even though Harry was technically stuffed silly right now. He climbed to his feet, one hand still soothingly cupping his protesting belly, waved to Ron, and managed not to splinch himself as he apparated into his bedroom at Grimauld place.

Kreacher had left a candle burning by his bed, and, Merlin have mercy: a plate of iced cookies. Harry eyed them with trepidation as he pulled off his t-shirt and – oh the relief! – tugged off his unbuttoned jeans. He raised his wand to do a tooth-cleaning charm, but lowered it a moment later, because it seemed pointless to clean his teeth if he planned to have a cookie, which, despite the gurgling of his overpacked belly, he did. Of course he did. He climbed into bed, curled on his side, and reached for the plate. 

:::

“Give it up, dearie,” Harry’s mirror advised. “It’s a lost cause.”

Harry stood before the scuffed glass, breath held, trying in vain to button his trousers. Finally he let out his breath in a whoosh and watched the new curve of his belly relax forward over his boxers. “They closed yesterday,” he complained. 

“Barely!”

“But how can they fit one day and not fit the next?”

“Oh, how indeed,” snorted the mirror. “Might have something to do with the cake you took to bed with you last night, hmm?”

Harry conceded grudgingly that it might. Gingerly he stroked the tight, warm skin of his belly, still bloated from last night’s excess. Kreacher, jealous to learn that someone else had been making him lunch each day, had taken to baking pastries and leaving them by Harry’s bed each night, and Harry, newly unable to resist, had taking to eating them.

Well, he’d eat sparingly today, let this bloat go down so he could get his damn trousers on tomorrow. Unless…

“Stretching charms? Of course, they’re a snap. Haven’t you read Sartorial Magic by Mugsy Poddington?” 

“Clearly, I have not.”

Hermione made a thoughtful sound. “What are you trying to stretch?”

Harry felt himself flushing. “My trousers.”

“Ha! I should’ve guessed.”

“What d’you mean, you should’ve guessed?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Hermione giggled. “All right, I’ll walk you through it. Take the trousers you’ve outgrown and –”

“I haven’t outrgrown them,” Harry said hotly, “they just don’t happen to fit right now, today.”

“Right, excuse me. I meant, take the trousers that mysteriously aren’t closing, just this morning, for no reason at all, and lay them flat on the bed. Then, with your wand held lengthwise…”

The charm worked like a – well, like a charm. The jeans were up a size, the denim slightly thinner overall since the extra material had to come from somewhere, but that would reverse itself when Harry reversed the charm tomorrow. He buttoned them with ease and pulled on a t-shirt and green wool jumper and went downstairs feeling far more cheerful. Thank god for Hermione. 

He chuckled to himself, imagining Draco’s reaction if he knew what emergency the Minister for Magic had spent her early morning fixing. 

“Oh, Merlin,” he said, stopping short in the dining room. “Kreacher, I can’t eat all this. You gave me too much cake last night.”

“Master has had an appetite lately,” Kreacher croaked, pulling out a chair. “Kreacher is only trying to keep him from going hungry.”

“Well, that’s not bloody likely,” Harry said, watching with some alarm as Kreacher piled his breakfast plate high with French toast, butter, syrup, scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon. “This is delicious,” he said, mouth full, “but I couldn’t get my trousers done up this morning. Going hungry might not be the worst thing for me.” 

“Master will not go hungry in this house,” Kreacher clarified. 

Harry sighed, reaching for the platter of bacon. He could feel this meal settling in his belly on top of the cake he hadn’t quite managed to fully digest; could feel each bite of sausage and syrupy French toast stretching his stretched-out stomach. Yet he didn’t stop. He let Kreacher refill his plate again, and then once more, until the table was just a mess of empty dishes and Harry’s hands were sticky with syrup. He was lightly out of breath, leaned back in his chair to give his stomach more room, sticky fingers pushed up beneath his jumper to soothe the gurgle of his pained gut. He pet himself as he’d pet an unpredictable animal, with soft, reassuring strokes, feeling how tight he’d gotten yet again. 

Kreacher was beaming. “Master is looking less like a garden rake every day,” he said approvingly. 

Harry belched in response. 

The floo trip into the Ministry was unpleasant, to say the least, and Harry found it difficult to concentrate on the meeting he led each morning. Usually he paced around as he spoke, but today he sat gingerly on the edge of a table, mindful of how full he still was, and rattled off the day’s agenda. 

“Bosworth, Kaplan and Abebe, you’ll be following up with the Museum of Useless Artifacts to review their security penseives. De la Cruz and Murphy, I need you with the Diagon Alley Shopkeeper’s Association again. Ryan and Schmitz, how’s the Whittmer case coming along?”

“Nearly wrapped, sir.”

“Good, finish it up and then report back immediately, yes?”

“Yes sir.”

Harry paused briefly to wonder if he’d ever get over being called sir by grizzled men twice his age, then moved on. He stuttered briefly as his eye caught the next assignment.

“And, hmm, we’ll need someone over in, er, in Cursebreaking today for the Tripathi case. I’ll, er, that’ll be me. The rest of you, finish up your paperwork, for the love of Merlin. Then all back for the four o’clock. Questions?”

De la Cruz raised her hand. “Who’s lead on Cursebreaking, sir?”

Harry pretended to check his notes, as if he didn’t know very well. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Ah, well, good.”

“You approve?” Harry said with some amusement. De la Cruz was married to a Cursebreaker and considered herself something of an expert in their office culture. 

“Giggy says he’s first rate,” she said importantly, then lowered her voice a bit. “Former Death Eater, though.”

Harry had barely started to bristle in Malfoy’s defense when De la Cruz continued. 

“So he may very well be scared of you, at first. They usually are, poor souls, even the ones that turned it around. You being, you know, Harry Potter and all…”

“I promise I’ll be nice,” Harry said hurriedly. He didn’t like to be reminded that he was, “you know, Harry Potter and all.” One of the reasons he loved his department was that he managed to go for whole days at a time where nobody seemed to think of him as anything but Sir, the too-young boss who deserved respect not for his name but for the things he’d done. 

“Don’t worry,” Wendy put in, poised at his side to take notes. “They’re great friends.”

“We’re – old friends,” Harry corrected, though that was not true either. What did you call a former enemy, someone who’d been manipulated to kill the person you’d admired most in the world and now brought you extravagant lunches each day? Maybe friend was the right term. Had to be, considering Harry’d put himself on the case just to be close to him. Well, no, not close to him! Not close, it was only that Harry was curious about how Draco worked, and this was an excellent opportunity to make a connection and get to know a new member of the staff in their professional capacity. Yes, it had nothing to do with wanting to spend time with him and everything to do with Harry’s commitment to the aurors. Good to be clear on that. 

“Four o’clock,” Harry repeated, hand straying unconsciously to pat his aching belly. One by one they filed out of his office, and he locked the door behind them before collapsing into his chair and tucking his hands up his shirt, cradling the throb of two breakfasts too many. Why hadn’t he stopped at one plate? Especially on top of nearly an entire chocolate cake from the night before; especially on a morning when he’d had to charm his trousers just to get them buttoned. It was humiliating. 

To his utter chagrin, his cock didn’t seem humiliated at all. In fact it was downright perky. He’d noticed this happening before when he ate too much, as if there was some strange connection between the swelling of his poor belly and the swelling of his cock, blood rushing to all the wrong places. He palmed it hopelessly then resolved to ignore it, focusing instead on the clock. He still had an hour before he had to meet Malfoy in his office – plenty of time for a quick nap, just to try and work through some of this debilitating fullness. 

He set an alarm and pillowed his head on his folded arms, feeling his belly press out even further as he slouched. Would he be able to fall asleep? Would he manage to –

BRRRINNNG!

Harry jerked upright, eyes wide, glasses askew, shirtsleeve damp where he’d drooled on it. For a moment he didn’t know where he was and felt a rising tide of panic, but then his stomach grumbled, bloated and grumpy at the sudden change in posture, and he put a hand to it, remembering, grounding himself. He’d fallen asleep nearly instantly, and an hour had passed. He did feel a bit better, less agonizingly stuffed, more alert. He cleaned his glasses and ran his fingers through his hair as if that would make one whit of difference, then stood, smoothing his sweater. He hoped he didn’t look as if he’d just fallen into an hourlong food coma. 

He collected his various notetaking devices and exited his office somewhat sheepishly, certain Wendy would be able to tell he’d been sleeping on the job, but she just smiled and handed him a folder. 

“This came over from Cursebreaking,” she said. “Might want to have a look-through before your meeting.”

Dutifully Harry flipped through it, noting the photographs pinned inside: a gorgeous slim ceramic vase, spinning in mid-air, its cobalt glaze glinting in the light. Apparently anyone who touched it was turned into a single rose. 

“Tell Draco hello from me,” Wendy called after him. 

Harry walked the narrow, familiar hallway, his heart thudding for some reason. Maybe it was vestiges of the panic that had overtaken him post-nap, or maybe it was just the elevated heartrate of pure curiosity to see where Malfoy spent his days. Either way, it banged in his ears as he banged on the door labeled Draco Malfoy. It sprang open a crack, and tentatively Harry pushed his way in. 

His jaw dropped. Malfoy’s office was small, tiny even, but it was one of the loveliest spaces he’d been in in the Ministry, which was overall drab, dull and functional. This room was bright, full but not overcluttered, all soft wood and glimmering glass and rich, velvety colors. Malfoy sat behind his desk looking posed there, as if arranged to enhance the beauty of the tableau, so tall and golden and upright in the midmorning sun, his brow creased at the papers on his desk and then smoothing out a bit when he saw Harry, almost as if he were glad to see him. A second later he was frowning again. 

“This is the nicest office I’ve ever seen,” Harry said, still gaping. “How’d you do this?”

“Taste, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “A foreign concept to you, I’m sure. Have a seat.”

Harry sat. “Merlin, this is a comfortable chair.”

“It ought to be,” Malfoy said. “It cost more than your entire flat, probably.”

“Doubtful,” Harry said, smiling. “Considering I live in the old Black mansion.”

Malfoy looked surprised, then avid. “Courtesy of your godfather, I assume. I can only imagine what kinds of horrors you found in there… Rugs cursed to smother you? Teapots that eat your face?”

“Not far off,” Harry admitted. “I still don’t go into half the rooms because I’m afraid of what I’ll find.”

Malfoy fixed him with an exasperated look. “Potter, you work for the Ministry. You’re head of the aurors. Did it never occur to you that someone else could go through everything for you?”

Harry hesitated before telling the truth. “I don’t… I don’t like having people in the house. Not unless I completely trust them, so it’s mostly just Hermione and the Weasleys these days. Call it paranoia, but…”

“I suppose you of all people have the right to be paranoid,” Malfoy said, shrugging. “Still, I hate thinking of all those treasures locked away in dusty corners just because they might be deadly.”

Harry laughed at the wistful look on Malfoy’s face. “Seems I’ve found your weakness. Murderous antiques.”

“Guilty,” Malfoy said, almost smiling.

“Speaking of,” Harry said, dropping the file on the desk. “We’re partners for this case.”

“The vase is safe in the department,” Malfoy said. “Why do they need an auror on it as well as a cursebreaker?”

“Because,” Harry said, grimacing slightly, “we’ve got an unsolved disappearance from a year ago, and the only evidence on the scene was a single rose.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said. “I don’t suppose anyone kept the rose, did they?”

“We did,” Harry said, “but I’m unhappy to say that it’s quite withered at this point. We aren’t hopeful about… reviving the person, if that’s what we’re dealing with… but after you break the curse I’ll be able to handle the vase, and look through its history to see if there’s a connection.”

“No time like the present, I suppose,” Malfoy said, pulling on a pair of white gloves, and a moment later the vase itself appeared on the desk in front of him. Harry yelped and scooted back in his chair. “This may take a while,” Malfoy said, narrowing his eyes. “Here, you can have a snack if you get bored.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry protested, but a tray of thickly-iced pumpkin bars had already appeared on the corner of Malfoy’s desk, well away from the vase. They smelled divine. Harry turned his head resolutely away, watching as Malfoy began gingerly moving his wand, teasing out a long shimmering thread and then vanishing it before beginning again. He was such an odd, graceful person, Malfoy was, every movement economical and calculated, down to the curve of his wrist and the tilt of his head. The old Malfoy was still in there, young and pointy and horrid, but he was such an adult now, his pointy features blunted by age until they came off as strong, not weak, his slim body firm with muscle, and so tall… 

Harry’s stomach moaned unhappily as he bit into a pumpkin bar, eating it mindlessly as he watched Malfoy work. It was clear he was not only an expert, but an artist. Harry helped himself to another pumpkin bar, watching the twist of his clever fingers as he teased out the dark matter of the curse. Any good the nap had done was being dismantled as Harry reached for a third pumpkin bar, adding it to his enormous breakfast and bloating his belly even further, the skin tight and stretched. Malfoy bit his lip in concentration. Harry bit into his fourth pumpkin bar. Malfoy pushed a lock of hair out of his face. Harry began pushing his fifth pumpkin bar into his mouth. He licked a long swath of frosting off his thumb and Malfoy fumbled his wand, the first non-graceful move he’d made, though he recovered quickly. 

“Enjoying those?” Malfoy murmured. 

“Too much,” Harry sighed, brushing crumbs off the now-visible swell of belly that pushed his jumper out into a gentle slope. It hurt like hell. 

“I’m surprised to see you in green,” Malfoy said. “Isn’t crimson more befitting a Gryffindor?”

Harry plucked at the green wool. “Hermione gave it to me. Says it brings out my eyes or some nonsense.”

He glanced up to find Malfoy staring at him. “She’s right,” he said shortly. Then, before Harry could process this, “Finished. It’s all yours.”

Harry put a careful, bracing hand on his belly as he stood, and he saw Malfoy track the movement. “Overdid it with those,” he said, nodding towards the pumpkin bars. “Had a big breakfast this morning.”

“Hope you’ve left room for lunch,” Malfoy said. “It’s that meat pie you liked so much.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry groaned. He could already taste the flaky, buttery crust. “When are you going to let me take you out, for a change?”

Malfoy went very still, and Harry, shocked at himself, hastened to clarify. 

“For a meal, I mean. I mean, you always bring me food and, and it doesn’t seem fair, I should, I should take you to dinner, I think, maybe. Maybe tomorrow? I should maybe take you to dinner tomorrow?” Harry was aware he was babbling but had absolutely no idea how to stop. 

Malfoy inclined his head, cool as ever. “I’m free tomorrow.”

“Right, tomorrow then. Okay. Grand. Give that here, let’s solve some crimes, hey? Crimes. Where would you like to go? There’s a new Muggle-run Thai place I’ve been wanting to try, it’s in the neighborhood, I don’t know if you eat at Muggle establishments but…”

“I do,” Malfoy said. “Thai sounds fine.”

Flustered and thrilled, Harry jammed another pumpkin bar into his mouth.


	3. Draco

“A date,” Pansy Parkinson pronounced. “Definitely, indisputably, disgustingly, a date. Oh, if I could go back in time and tell the little prat I used to snog that one day he’d be head-over-heels for Harry fucking Potter.”

“I’m not head over heels for anyone,” Draco said. He positioned himself in front of the fire so she could see him better, and held up two ties. “Pink or grey?”

“Pink,” Pansy said. “Just in case he hasn’t cottoned-on that you’re gay as the day is long.”

“Color has nothing to do with it,” Draco said. “You know, pink used to be reserved only for young noblemen, and it was only later, in the nineteen fifties, that –”

“Yes, yes, you’ve told me this before. Anyway, isn’t a tie a bit much?”

“I wear a tie every day to work.”

“Right,” Pansy said, “but this isn’t work.”

Draco considered. She had a point. “Very well, no tie.”

“What’s Potter going to wear, do you think? Will he comb his hair?”

“Doubtful,” Draco said, and was horrified to hear himself saying it fondly. “He’ll probably wear horrible dark wash jeans and a too-snug jumper like he does every day.”

“Well, better too snug than too loose,” Pansy reasoned. 

“I could not agree more.”

A slow smile spread over Pansy’s face. “Tell me,” she said. “Was his jumper too snug before you started working there? Or is this a recent development?”

“Oh, sod off.”

She cackled, and a moment later her laughing head disappeared with a whoosh of flame. Draco frowned at the empty hearth. There were downsides to being very well-known by an old friend. Although the advice about the tie was appreciated.

Dressed, Draco apparated to a street corner about a mile off the restaurant. It was a nice fall evening and he wanted a bit of time to stretch his legs, to get his thoughts in order, to calm his racing heart. Everything about what was happening felt so improbable, and his feelings were the most improbable part of it all. He kept picturing Potter’s stupid face, how his eyes got brighter when Draco came into a room, how after all these years he was still incapable of concealing his emotions, beaming like an idiot when he was happy, glaring like a harpy when he was angry. Kept picturing the way he sighed when he was too full, the careful way he touched the stomach that Draco made sure to keep packed tight, how he’d eat and eat and eat as long as there was food in front of him. He was looking so healthy these days, his torso filled out and then some, his waist ever-so-slightly thickened, his belly beginning to sit out from his frame. Just a bit, only if you were looking for it, which Draco was. 

Potter was waiting for him outside the restaurant, hands in his pockets, sage-green jumper stretched gently over that little push of stomach. It would be tighter by the time Draco was through with him, he thought, and had to stop to school his features before he turned the corner and let Potter see him. 

There it was, that bright, unconcealed grin. Potter pushed his glasses up and waved, so transparently pleased to see him. 

“Hi,” Potter said. “Hello.”

“Popular place,” Draco said, noting the cluster of people lined up to get in. “I don’t suppose you made a reservation?”

“In fact, I did,” Potter said, and led Draco inside to the hostess podium. “Table for two,” he said. “Fletcher.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at this, and Potter shrugged, sheepish. He really was paranoid.

Their table was in the back, a small corner booth beneath a chiming, multi-colored glass lamp that made pink and yellow light dance across Potter’s face as he sat. Draco’s foolish heart started beating too fast once again, and he covered his sudden rush of nerves by reaching for the menu, which was extensive. 

“Looks good,” Potter said, tongue playing with the edge of that tantalizing scar.

Draco leaned forward. “I’ll let you pay,” he said, “if you let me order for you.”

Potter swallowed visibly and set down the menu, sliding it deliberately to Draco’s side of the table. “Deal.”

When the server came, Draco took great pleasure in placing their order, watching Potter’s eyes grow wide and his lips part as if he might protest, only to stay quiet, to stay obedient. 

“I’ll have the green curry with tofu,” Draco said. “He will have the fried egg rolls, the fried golden chicken and the beef satay as an appetizer, and then the pad thai with duck. And…” He flicked his eyes through the menu. “The massaman curry with chicken.”

“To drink?”

Draco glanced at Potter. “Beer?” Potter nodded. “Two.”

The server whisked away the menus and Potter said, “I hope you don’t expect me to eat all that.”

“Of course I do,” Draco said. Potter didn’t seem to have an answer for this, just a nervous half-smile, and Draco was suddenly seized with the terror that after all this, they’d actually have nothing to say to each other, nothing to talk about. His mind went absolutely blank. 

“So how’d you get into Cursebreaking, anyway?” Potter said, and they were off.

The appetizers came midway through a heated and deeply gossipy conversation about whether Giggy and De la Cruz were in an open marriage or not, Draco maintaining they were, Potter swearing they were monogamous, and Potter didn’t even hesitate before tucking into the egg rolls, the fried chicken, and the beef satay, rotating his way through the three dishes, speaking through a full mouth. His appalling manners didn’t even bother Draco. 

“Are you going to have any of this?” Potter asked at one point, gesturing to the three plates. 

“No,” Draco said, and Potter shrugged, taking the last egg roll. He ate quickly and eagerly, washing it all down with first one beer, then another, and had just finished the last bite of the fried chicken when their entrees came. 

“Big portions,” Potter said, looking at the mound of pad thai in front of him, and then at the steaming tureen of rich peanut curry with its generous side of white rice. “One of these alone is more than enough for two.”

“Well then,” Draco said. “I guess you’ll be eating more than enough for four.”

Potter was already twirling a forkful of noodles. “Good thing I’ve got practice.”

Draco nearly choked on his own beer. 

“I’ll be honest,” Potter continued, “I had to call Hermione last week to help me with a stretching charm for my trousers.”

Draco laughed helplessly, imagining Granger in her full Minister for Magic garb trying to talk Potter through one of the most basic sartorial charms in the book. Potter was grinning, watching Draco laugh. It took a moment for his mirth to subside and the basic facts of what Potter had said to sink in. 

“So you’ve…” Draco took a casual bite of his own meal. “You’ve put on some weight, I take it?”

“You can’t tell?” Potter wanted to know. “Good. I thought it was obvious. Yeah, I was a bit underweight before, so it’s not a bad thing, but… I’ve added about a stone and a half. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I simply provide lunch,” Draco said, palms sweaty. A stone and a half! “I’m not the one eating it.”

“No,” Potter said, sighing a little. He was getting full. “No, that’d be me.” 

He drained his second beer and Draco signaled for another. The pad thai was half gone already and Potter turned towards the curry, ladling the thick peanuty gravy over the bowl of rice and spooning it up into his waiting mouth. Draco tried to eat his own food but he barely tasted anything, too focused on Potter, on the steady way he ate, the pleasure he took in it, how he’d rested one elbow on the table and had a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, making that famous scar glisten. 

“Phew,” Potter said. “I’m…” he paused and let out a quiet belch. “Scuse me. I’m getting quite full.”

“You’ve barely touched the noodles,” Draco said, which was a baldfaced lie. 

“True,” Potter said, taking another big bite of curry, then turning to the pad thai as if facing an old opponent. He tugged the platter closer to himself and began to eat the noodles in earnest, quickly and neatly, head down. He didn’t stop when the server put another beer at his elbow, didn’t stop until the plate had been wiped completely clean and he was sat back in his seat, one hand pressed into the side of his belly, mouth glistening, breath coming in shallow pants. “Merlin,” he gasped. “I’m so stuffed.”

Draco could see that he was. His belly looked swollen beneath the thin jumper, rounder than when they’d sat down. “There’s still half this curry left,” Draco said. “Here, let me.” He poured the remaining curry over the rice and offered Potter his own spoon. 

“I’m going to burst,” Potter said, wincing as he began to eat the curry. He took a long swig of beer, belched, kept eating. 

“The only thing that’ll burst is those trousers.”

“Just stretched ‘em,” Potter gasped. “Already feeling – tight – oh, fuck, that’s good, fuck I’m full.”

“Almost done,” Draco said, voice low, his whole body a taut, quivering string, completely focused on Potter. 

“I’ve got to stop,” Potter said, “gotta stop eating like, like this. Fuck, I’m, I’m packed.”

“Go on,” Draco coaxed. “A few more bites. There we go. Two more. Yes, Potter, excellent!”

Potter shoved away the empty curry dish and curled over himself, arms wrapped around his bloated middle. He was panting audibly, glasses slid so far down the bridge of his nose that they were nearly coming off, and Draco, daring greatly, leaned forward and gently pushed them back up for him. Potter met his eyes and Draco could have sworn he saw actual sparks. 

“I need to, to lie down,” Potter said breathlessly. 

“Yes,” Draco agreed, breathless for totally different reasons. “We should, we should get you flat, get you comfortable.”

Potter was fumbling for his wallet, beckoning the server over and slipping him the square piece of plastic that somehow passed for Muggle money, and then he was running a hand firmly over that roundly swollen stomach. 

“We can go to mine,” Draco said. “If you want.”

“Yeah,” Potter breathed. “Bet it’s – gorgeous. If it’s – anything like –”

Draco expected Potter say, _anything like your office_. 

But instead he sipped air and said, “Anything like – like you.” 

It was very rare for Draco Malfoy to be caught off guard. But right then, he was. He felt blindsided by the compliment, by the sincere way it was given as well as its contents. Potter, he saw, meant every word. He could feel himself growing red and scowled against it. A Malfoy did not blush like a schoolgirl just because a handsome boy had called him beautiful. 

“It’ll do,” he said shortly. 

The server had collected the Muggle plastic and returned it without Draco’s noticing. Potter picked up a pen as if it weighed a great deal and painstakingly signed his name, then began the slow process of leveraging himself to his feet. He was hunched over a bit, protective of his food-filled stomach, and as they left the restaurant Draco found himself hovering a protective hand across Potter’s lower back. 

“Leave the apparating to me,” Draco said, leading him to a darkened alley nearby. Potter nodded, too out of breath from the walk to speak, and Draco took his hand. It was surprisingly large and calloused in his own smooth fingers, and there was such trust in his grip. Draco squeezed once, and with a ferocious crack, they vanished. 

The truth was, Draco knew his apartment was in fact quite beautiful. Space was important to him, it always had been, and he liked lovely objects, liked nice things. It was gratifying to see Potter momentarily forget his physical discomfort and go wide-eyed. 

“It’s amazing in here,” Potter breathed. “How do you keep all these plants alive?”

“Water,” Draco said. “Which you could probably use, too. And maybe – a firewhisky?”

“Merlin, yes,” Potter said. He lowered himself onto the closest sofa, a baby blue brocade number that was a thousand times more comfortable than it looked. Draco poured them each a knuckle of whisky and brought it back to find Potter half-reclined against the cushions, one hand up under his shirt trying to soothe his stomach. 

“Let me,” Draco said, masking his eagerness with impatience, and he handed Potter the whisky and slid beside him on the couch. Potter bit his lip but allowed Draco to carefully, so carefully, tug his shirt up to reveal the firm packed bulge of stomach that sat out over the waistband of the stretched trousers. The button was straining, and with as much gentleness as he could muster, Draco unfastened it. “These don’t look as if you’ve just stretched them.”

“What can I say,” Potter said, eyes slitted like a lazy cat beneath Draco’s ministrations. “Someone’s been feeding me too much.”

“Someone’s been eating too much,” Draco countered.

“Yes,” Potter agreed. “I bloody well have.”

Draco coasted a hand across that hot, tight skin. “I lied, earlier,” he said. “I can tell you’ve put on weight.”

Potter groaned, whether from this comment or from the way Draco was tracing circles around his stretched belly button, it wasn’t clear. 

“You’ll probably put on more,” Draco said, leaning forward and letting his breath ghost Potter’s ear. “If you don’t learn some self-control.”

“Never was much good at that,” Potter gasped. He turned his head yearningly and Draco obliged him, meeting his mouth in a hot rush, a kiss that started out gentle but almost immediately became something more, urgent and insistent and desperate. He got his tongue on that little white scar, at last, sucking on Potter’s tender lower lip and then biting down. Before he quite knew what was happening Draco found himself straddling Potter’s lap, that stupid face between his hands, kissing him for all he was worth as Potter arched his back and groaned. That round belly pressed into Draco’s torso and he couldn’t stop himself from rutting up against it, Potter making the most amazing little noises beneath him, pushing at Draco’s shirt trying to get it off him. 

Draco had known Potter for nearly twenty years. He knew the man was determined, focused, passionate, reckless – knew this intellectually. But it was quite another thing to know it physically. Potter made love like he sought the snitch, like he’d fought the Dark Lord, like he’d saved the whole damn wizarding world: very fucking well. Even half-incapacitated with fullness, Potter took Draco apart even as he himself was coming apart, both of them panting into one another’s mouths and whining like beasts, unable to get enough contact, enough friction, until all of a sudden it was enough, it was too much, it was glorious and painful and perfect, and they were both shouting as they came. 

Draco slumped down, forehead on Potter’s shoulder. “Merlin’s beard.”

“That was amazing.”

Draco dropped a hand to the side of Potter’s poor stomach, knuckling it gently. “Think we burned some calories. Time for dessert?”

“Draco,” Potter groaned, and the name went through Draco like a thunderbolt. He’d only ever called him Malfoy, he realized. He pressed his mouth to Potter’s neck – to Harry’s neck, nipping him lightly just below the ear, and felt the man shiver beneath him. 

“Ice cream,” Draco decided, and pushed to his feet. He was quite naked, and he let Harry admire him for a moment. Harry himself looked absolutely debauched, trousers and boxers around his ankles, shirt flung to the side, belly still so swollen it was almost shining. Draco let himself put a kiss on that tortured skin, right above the flattened belly button, and felt Harry’s hands briefly grip his hair. Then he went into the kitchen for the ice cream.


	4. Harry

“Sir,” Wendy said. “With due respect, that’s your third cinnamon roll.”

Harry looked up. “Yes?

“And you’ve only just had lunch, which I happen to know was not what we’d call modest.”

Harry made a carry-on motion with his hand. “Your point, Wendy?”

“My point is, I know overstretched trousers when I see them, and the charm’s not going to cut it anymore, boss. You need new clothes.”

Harry felt himself flush. “How can you tell? About the stretching charm, I mean.”

“The denim’s gone all thin,” she said. “It’s obvious around the knees. Soon it’ll be see through.”

“They’re on their third charm,” Harry admitted. 

“About to be on their fourth, if that undone button’s any sign,” Wendy said, and Harry flushed even deeper, trying to tug his shirt down to cover the evidence. “That won’t work,” Wendy said patiently, “because your shirts are all too tight.”

“All right, well, thank you for your professional input. Haven’t you some work to do?”

“I’m just saying,” Wendy said, putting her hands up and laughing. “You’ve put on a spot of weight, nothing wrong with that, but you’ll be wanting to do a shop.”

“A spot of weight,” Harry muttered. “It’s over two stone.”

“Don’t pretend to be put-out,” she said. “You wouldn’t be eating like that if you minded.”

Harry mimed throwing the last bite of cinnamon roll at her and she whirled away, still laughing, his office door closing behind her. Harry put the last bite into his mouth instead, and chewed, looking down at his overstretched trousers and the thick belly that was mounded above them. Did he mind? He genuinely wasn’t certain. He’d never been anything but thin and now all of a sudden he wasn’t. He wasn’t fat by any means, or even podgy, but he’d added an undeniable paunch that only seemed to get bigger by the day. It was especially large right now because he’d had a stressful morning and had, admittedly, been eating almost nonstop. He was absolutely stuffed, belly throbbing with the onslaught of food, probably six meal’s worth and it wasn’t even two pm. He let out a heavy sigh, fingering the impossible button. Wendy was right: these jeans wouldn’t last another stretching charm. 

A knock came on his door and he fumbled to slide closer to the desk and hide the swollen evidence of his binge, but he relaxed when Draco put his head through. 

“A word?” he said. 

“Come in,” Harry said, waiting ‘til the door was properly closed and locked before he grinned at his boyfriend. 

“Brought you a milkshake,” Draco said, holding up an enormous frosted cup. “Chocolate.”

“Oof, not sure if I can,” Harry said. “I’ve just had three cinnamon rolls. Maybe if you rubbed this thing I could fit a bit more in it.”

Smoothly Draco stalked over to Harry and handed him the milkshake. “I’ll rub more than that,” he said, and Harry’s mouth went dry. He fit his lips over the straw as Draco sank to his knees, gulping cold liquidy ice cream as Draco fingered his unbuttoned trousers. 

“You’ve certainly gained a few, haven’t you?”

“It seems that way.”

“You need –”

“New clothes, I know.”

“Keep drinking,” Draco said, and Harry sucked more rich milkshake into his mouth. “I’ll take care of getting you some new things,” Draco said. “Unless you’d rather.”

“No,” Harry said with relief. “I bloody hate shopping, thank you.”

“You really are getting round,” Draco said, his tone sending shivers down Harry’s spine. He caressed Harry’s sides. “Keep eating like this and you’ll have quite the muffin top.” He gently bit the swell of hip that bowed out over Harry’s tight trousers, then dragged his tongue downwards. Harry filled his mouth with milkshake and Draco filled his mouth with Harry, both of them sucking, sucking, sucking, until Harry was choking and coming at the same time, gasping for breath, so full even as he was emptying himself down Draco’s throat. With the ebb of the intense pleasure came the after-effects of chugging that much ice cream, and he sighed as Draco patted his tortured gut. 

“People are noticing,” Harry said. “They’re noticing I’m…”

“Insatiable?” Draco suggested. 

“Well, yes. And that I’m adding a bit of a belly.”

“You’ve put on thirty pounds,” Draco said, and Harry laughed. Draco liked the US metric system because it sounded like more. “Of course people are noticing.”

“It’s all here,” Harry said, tapping said belly. 

“No, your arse has gotten a bit bigger, too,” Draco said. “And your thighs. And your face, a little.”

“Really?”

“Just here,” Draco said, and sucked the patch of skin beneath Harry’s chin. Then, abruptly, he stood. “Well, work to do.”

“Don’t you want –”

“Later,” Draco leered, taking the empty shake cup from Harry’s hand and disappearing it. “You can make it up to me tonight.”

And with that he was gone, the bastard, leaving Harry to fumble with his trousers and try to make himself presentable. He stood, thinking it might be easier to get the fly done-up that way, but even standing his belly was too swollen to allow the buttonhole to swallow the button. Gritting his teeth, he threw caution to the wind and attempted a stretching charm, and a moment later let out a groan of despair. Wendy had been right: the denim was essentially see-through. He tried to reverse the charm, but to his absolute horror, his put-upon jeans gave up the ghost entirely, and burst into a shower of glitter. He was left standing in his office in a too-tight pair of boxers and a shirt and jumper that were clinging to their last legs. 

His only saving grace was the pair of robes hanging on the back of his door. He pulled them on with relief, though he frowned when he smoothed them down his torso and saw that even they clung just a bit to his stomach. 

When he came out for the afternoon meeting, Wendy nearly fell off her chair from laughing. 

“Insubordination,” Harry said weakly. 

“Yes sir!”

:::

“Crikey,” Ron said the following Thursday. He looked Harry up and down, grinning. “You’ve been packing it on, haven’t you?”

“Come off it,” Harry grumbled. “It’s only been a couple weeks since I’ve seen you.”

“They must’ve been quite some weeks!”

“Stop it,” Hermione said, putting her arms around Harry and giving his cheek a ringing kiss. “It’s relationship weight, it means he’s happy!”

“Happy. With Draco. Sodding. Malfoy.”

“Who cares with who,” Hermione said, squeezing Harry’s hand. She was such a bloody romantic, Harry almost preferred Ron’s teasing. “When will you bring him to dinner?”

“When this git gets over it,” Harry said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. “Speaking of dinner, what’s on the menu?”

Ron reached forward and gave Harry’s belly a gentle pat. Harry had to admit it was looking rather big that day; he’d worked his way through an entire treacle tart after lunch, too swamped in paperwork and too focused to pay attention until his fork clanged against the empty tin. Plus he and Draco had popped out to a pizza place for lunch, and Harry’d had a large to himself, on top of chicken wings and a milkshake. Plus he’d had a full English breakfast and seconds, courtesy of Kreacher. 

Right. No wonder he was putting on weight so quickly. Every time he made the mistake of tallying what he’d eaten that day he was frankly shocked at himself. He hadn’t even had dinner yet! 

“I made shepherd’s pie,” Ron said. “One for me and ‘Mione, one for you.”

“Ha, ha,” Harry said. 

“No, he isn’t joking,” Hermione giggled. “He doesn’t want to be outdone by your boyfriend!”

“I don’t want to be outdone by Draco sodding Malfoy!” Ron said. “Anyway, I’m curious to see if you can get down a whole shepherd’s pie in one sitting.”

Harry debated telling Ron he’d already eaten a pie that day, but decided against it. Instead he put a cautious hand on his belly and said, “To be honest, I think I can.”

“How much have you put on?” Ron wanted to know. “Two stone?”

“Ron, stop!” Hermione said. “You’re impossible!”

“Two and a half,” Harry said. 

“Well, you look very nice,” Hermione said decidedly. “That color blue is beautiful on you, is it new?”

Harry smirked at Ron. “My boyfriend bought it.”

“Draco sodding Malfoy’s buying him clothes now!” Ron said to the air. 

“He always did have good taste,” Hermione mused, leading them to the table. It was set very nicely, Harry noticed. They didn’t usually pull out any stops for him, but tonight they were eating off Molly’s mother’s good china, candles flickering in silver holders, and there was a champagne flute set at his and Ron’s seats. Not at Hermione’s, however – and his heart gave a skittering lurch in his chest. 

“No,” he said, looking between his two best friends. “Hermione?”

“I told you he’d take one look at those glasses and know,” Ron said triumphantly. 

“Yes!” Hermione squealed. “We’re having a baby!”

Harry broke out into a dazed grin, embarrassed to find his eyes filling with tears. He shook his head, speechless, and a moment later Hermione was in his arms and he was sniffling into her hair. “A baby,” he said stupidly. It seemed unbelievable, after all they’d been through, that anything so good should be allowed to happen. “A baby.”

Distantly he could feel Ron thumping him on the back, and he turned to hug him next, surprised to remember how tall his friend was, taller even than Draco. “Will the baby be tall, do you think?” he said. His brain still wasn’t working at full capacity. 

“I hope she’s ten feet tall!” shrieked Hermione, who was clearly also too happy to make much sense. 

“She?” Harry said. 

“Well,” Hermione said, and crossed her fingers. 

“I feel awful for him if he’s a boy,” Ron confided. “Hermione will never get over it.”

“I’ll love her even if she’s a boy!” Hermione said hotly. “I’ll love them no matter what gender they are born with or choose for themselves! But oh, I hope she’s not a boy. No offense, but I’ve been absolutely surrounded by you lot, and with Ginny off playing for the states, I need an ally. Oh Harry, she’s coming home next month, by the way! Did she tell you?”

“Let’s get the cheersing over with first,” Ron said, raising his glass of champagne, and they all clinked merrily and then sat down. True to his word, Ron set a bubbling shepherd’s pie down in front of Harry’s plate and then another between himself and Hermione. There was crusty bread, too, and buttered peas, and more champagne, and Harry thought he’d never been so happy. 

“Yes, she may stay with me for a night or two,” Harry said. He and Ginny were on excellent terms since their breakup, which had been hilariously mutual: both of them had turned out to play more for the other team, so to speak, although for Ginny the euphemism was quite literal. She’d fallen in love with Emmaline, a teammate on her Quidditch team. “I haven’t told her yet, though, about…” 

“Draco sodding Malfoy?” Ron said. 

Harry blew on a hot mouthful of shepherd’s pie. “Right.”

“What about this,” Ron said, leaning over and poking Harry’s belly. “Have you told her about this?”

“You know, I’m also about to put on quite a lot of weight,” Hermione said. “Are you going to poke me, too?”

“Yes,” Ron said, leering. 

“I haven’t put on _quite a lot of weight_ ,” Harry protested, buttering a hunk of bread. “Just… some.”

“By the time Ginny gets here, at the rate you’re going, it’ll be quite a lot,” Ron said confidently. “How’s the shepherd’s pie?”

“Excellent,” Harry said fervently, and it was. The meat was tender and juicy, the gravy flavorful, the potatoes creamy, the crust flaky and buttery. He noticed with some consternation that he’d already eaten about a quarter of his, while Ron and Hermione hadn’t even gotten that far in the one they were sharing. He forced himself to slow down, to stop shoveling the food in like it was going somewhere. Vestiges from a childhood of deprivation, Draco had once said, and Harry had snapped at him not to pop-psychologize, but probably it was true. He had some more bread instead, layering it thickly with butter, and more champagne. 

He could feel his overstrained stomach bloating up again and he winced, laying a hand across the round swell beneath his pecs. It had only just started to go down after that treacle tart. Halfway through his shepherd’s pie he realized that Ron and Hermione weren’t eating anymore, but Ron was still happily drinking champagne and the conversation kept flowing, so Harry didn’t feel too awkward that he was still the only one chewing. 

“You know, you don’t actually have to finish that,” Ron said. 

Harry glanced down. There was about a quarter of his pie left. Ron and Hermione’s pie, on the other hand, was barely half eaten. God, he really ought to slow down. A pie like this could feed a whole dinner party of people, not one person who’d already eaten two dinner party’s worth of food that day. He rocked uncomfortably in his chair, belly aching so fiercely he couldn’t help but soothe a hand up and down it, knowing Ron and Hermione could probably tell how full he was. 

“I can manage,” Harry said, and took an enormous bite. 

He did manage, and after the pie was gone, he managed a stack of gingersnaps and five glasses of firewhisky, by which time both he and Ron were quite drunk, Ron lolling on his back in front of the fire, Harry in an armchair with his taut belly piled in front of him, looking so round that even he was surprised. 

“How noticeable is it?” Harry asked, dragging his hand across his stretched-out navel. “The weight, I mean.”

“Very,” Ron said, and cackled drunkenly. “I mean, you look good, I’m not saying you don’t. But you’ve suddenly got this – this outright belly, and the way you eat, mate, it’s only gonna get bigger.”

“I know,” Harry sighed. He shifted in his chair. “I’m starting to notice it, myself. Feeling a bit heavy.”

“Two and a half stone’ll do that to you,” Ron said wisely, though he’d always been a beanpole. “So will an entire shepherd’s pie and a half loaf of bread, Merlin.”

Harry laughed. 

“So, your boyfriend. Dracy sodding Malfoy. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

Harry allowed himself a smile. “He definitely doesn’t mind.”

“Well, all right,” Ron said, as if that settled something. “He’s still an absolute dick wrinkle, but I suppose he’s your dick wrinkle now.”

Harry shuddered. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad.”

“I know,” Ron said, suddenly sounding very sober. “It’s mental, isn’t it? After everything. Oh, come on, don’t cry again.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, and tried to suppress his tears, only to hiccup loudly. “Ow,” he said, clapping a hand to his belly, and hiccupped again. “Ow. Ow.”

Ron burst out laughing. “You look so surprised every time! Oh, this is priceless. The great Harry Potter, felled by hiccups.”

“I’m not – ow! – not felled by – ow! Christ, I’m too – oof! – full for this.”

“Here, here, have some more firewhisky, that’ll fix it, go on.”

“I’m staying on the couch tonight.”

“Yes, I think that’s wise.”

“I expect breakfast.”

“Of fucking course you do.”


	5. Draco

“We’ve been dating for almost five months,” Harry announced over dinner. Dinner, or whatever it was called when you were in bed with your boyfriend feeding him a pan of lasagna. 

“Excellent mathematical skills,” Draco said. He licked sauce off the side of Harry’s mouth and eased another bite past his lips. “Tell me some more. What’s two and two?”

“I want you to stay over my place. Next week.”

Draco pulled back to catch Harry’s eye. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” Harry said adamantly. “It’s – I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I mean, it’s nowhere near as nice as your flat, and my bed’s not half as comfortable, and Kreacher won’t let you in the kitchen so you’ll have to ask him whenever you want to feed me something, but… if that all sounds okay with you… then, yes. I want you to come over.”

They were both fully clothed, though Harry’s t-shirt was rucked up around his chest to give Draco access to the belly that had grown out of another pair of overstretched trousers in the past month. There were angry pink stretchmarks spidered around his navel and striping up his sides, and his pecs in Draco’s palms were meatier, nipples peakier. Draco slipped a hand under Harry’s shirt now and cupped one of these pudgy pegs, thumb swiping over the nipple. 

“I’d love to come over,” he said. “If you manage to finish this lasagna.”

“I’m up another stone,” Harry said around a mouthful. “And then some. That’s forty-six pounds, American, by the way. More math skills for you.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Draco said, raking his gaze across the round belly pushed out against his palm.

“Can’t believe how much weight I’ve stacked on,” Harry said. He hauled himself a bit further up the cushions so he could look down at himself, and Draco watched him trace the jut of swollen underbelly that crushed his waistband and threatened to settle in his lap. He’d eaten a little over half a pan of the lasagna and Draco could feel how full he was, could hear the strain of it in his voice, but he opened his mouth again when Draco raised the loaded fork. 

“You really can’t believe it?” Draco said. “You’re eating enough for three men your size. Every day. With absolutely no let-up.”

“Right,” Harry said. “There is that. Turns out I’m a bit of a glutton. And you’re a bit of an enabler.”

“I prefer the term encourager.”

“I’m going to need encouragement to get that down,” Harry said, nodding at the lasagna. “I’m absolutely stuffed.”

Draco kissed his neck and pushed another bite between his lips. “What’ll your house elf make us next week?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said dryly. “He’s on your team. Tried to get me to finish off an entire pound cake for breakfast the other day.”

“And did you?”

Harry let out a heavy sigh. “You know I did. God, I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t so full it hurt.”

“But it’s a good hurt, right?” Draco said, suddenly worried. “You like it?”

“Merlin, yes, I like it. God knows why.”

“And the… consequences?” 

“You mean this?” Harry said, framing his belly between his hands. He accepted another bite of lasagna and chewed thoughtfully. “I’m not bothered, I guess. Or, no, I am a little bothered. I feel a bit… out of control, I suppose. Especially when I catch sight of myself in a mirror. It’s always a surprise, how big I’ve gotten. How big I’m letting myself get.”

“Do you want to stop?” Draco said. “I would if you wanted to.”

Harry put a hand on his cheek. “I know you would. Here, give me another bite. Mmm. Oof. Fuck. No, I don’t want to stop.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “You know me. I rather like being out of control. So long as it’s you who’s in control.”

Draco paused for a moment, fork resting on Harry’s lips. It was unbelievable to him that he’d somehow earned the trust of Harry Potter. Unbelievable that he’d even wanted to in the first place. Unbelievable how it made him feel.

“I think you ought to know something,” Draco said. His heart was pounding in his ears and Harry looked faintly alarmed, struggling around his packed belly to sit up. Draco laid a placating hand on the buttery, softening skin of his stomach, and forced himself to meet those green eyes. “I think you ought to know that I love you.”

Harry let out a little huff. “You scared me.”

“Not my intention.”

“I – you should know, too. I love you. Also.”

They grinned at each other for a moment, a strange shyness in the air, and then Draco piled the fork high again. “Well, that’s settled. Let’s give you a horrible stomachache, shall we?”

“Ah,” Harry sighed dramatically. “Love.”

:::

Harry’s house was nothing like Harry himself. It was dark and lugubrious where Harry was bright and determined, antiquated where Harry was fresh, Slytherin to Harry’s Gryffindor. Draco absolutely loved it. 

“The potential is astounding,” he said, running a hand over the marble fireplace in the sitting room. “If you gave me six months and a million galleons…”

“A million galleons,” Harry laughed. “Go on.”

Draco turned to raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, that’s why you’ve got to let me have a go at those rooms you’re scared to enter. I could sell of a million galleons worth of antiques easily, once I’ve taken the murder out of them.”

“Really?”

“I have no doubt.”

Harry was shrugging out of his jacket, and Draco was briefly distracted by the way his button-up flannel rode up the slope of his belly, wrinkling beneath those softened pecs. He was looking so thick, lately, thick and round and getting rounder almost by the day. How would someone else describe him, Draco wonder. Podgy? Paunchy? His ass had grown, too, was sweetly wider and juicier. He watched as Harry sat with a thump on the couch, too unused to this new weight to understand how to get himself gracefully in and out of chairs. He arched his back, pushing on the side of his belly as if trying to rearrange it, and Draco realized that it was sitting fully on his lap, now, resting on the tops of his thighs. Just a week ago, it hadn’t been, and now it was. Did Harry notice? He seemed more uncomfortable than usual, grunting a bit as he tried to get situated. 

“All right, there?” Draco said. 

“Hot,” Harry said. “This thing’s starting to get in my way.”

There was a tremendous crack, and then Draco found himself looking at one of the ugliest house elves he’d ever seen. 

“Little Lord Malfoy,” the elf croaked, and swept a bow so deep Draco worried he’d never get out of it. “Kreacher is at your service.”

“Nice to meet you,” Draco said politely, and at Harry’s snort, snapped, “I haven’t learned absolutely nothing from Granger, thank you. I’m a contributing member of S.P.E.W., I’ll have you know.”

“More penance?” Harry said, then draped a hand across the upper curve of his belly. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“Little Lord Malfoy has fed my master very well,” Kreacher said, and Harry blushed. “Kreacher is not so talented as you are, no, not nearly, but Kreacher will do whatever he can to keep master fed.”

“Go on, tell him what you want,” Harry said, looking amused. “If he can get it, we can have it.”

“Ah,” Draco said. “How about… baked brie and a baguette?”

Kreacher cracked away without another word.

“What’s baked brie?” Harry said, looking interested.

“It’s a wheel of cheese,” Draco said, stalking over to him. “Baked in a pastry crust.”

“Merlin. Bit much for an appetizer. What’ll you ask for dinner?”

“Fish and chips.”

Harry laughed. 

“A lot of fish and chips,” Draco added. “I’ve had a craving, myself, and I can never get the batter right.”

Another crack and Kreacher appeared with a steaming wheel of baked brie and a hot baguette.

“Perfect,” Draco said, impressed. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

“You are too kind, Little Lord Malfoy,” Kreacher said. “Will you want me to start on dinner?”

“We’ll eat in…” Harry eyed the wheel of brie, and sighed. “An hour. Lord Malfoy wants fish and chips.”

“A lot of them,” Draco said. “Enough for your master to eat until he has to lie down.”

Kreacher gave Draco an approving look and vanished. Draco took the pastry-encrusted cheese to the couch and tucked himself into Harry’s side. Experimentally he tried to lay the baguette atop the curve of Harry’s stomach, but it rolled off. 

“Another stone,” he decided, and tore off a piece of the bread, loading it up with hot, melty cheese.

“Oh, this is good,” Harry said. “Why haven’t I had this before?”

Draco made him another piece and stroked his belly gently as he ate it. He could feel the swell of Harry’s hip pressed into his own side and he leaned down to mouth at one of Harry’s pudgy pecs through the cotton of his shirt. Harry let out a little whimper and let Draco fill his mouth with more bread and cheese. 

“Gotta talk to you about something,” Harry said thickly. 

“Yes?”

“Er, well… you know Ron and Hermione are having a baby.”

“Yes?”

“And you know I used to date Ron’s sister, Ginny?”

Draco thought of the beautiful redhead and gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“Well, she’s coming to see them next week, and I told her she could stay here for a night. She always loved this house, Merlin knows why. And also I promised them I’d invite you for dinner. So.”

Draco took a moment to digest this. “Your ex-girlfriend’s staying here with you.”

“Yes, but don’t worry, she’s quite gay. Engaged to a woman on her Quidditch team, Emmaline, she’ll be here too.”

“And… you’re inviting me to the Minister for Magic’s house for dinner.”

“No,” Harry said sharply. “I’m inviting you to my best friend’s house for dinner.”

Stalling, Draco fed Harry more of the cheese and bread. Sitting at a table with Hermione and the Weasleys was nervewracking to imagine. He felt confident that Harry saw him as he was now, but he had a terrible suspicion that Harry’s friends would look at him and see only the boy he’d been, mean and wrongminded and frightened out of his mind. 

“Hermione’s dying to meet you,” Harry said, then realized what he’d said and tried to cover it up. “I mean, you’ve met, of course you’ve met, I only mean she’s looking forward to meeting you as, as my boyfriend, you know…”

Actually, Harry’s gaffe made Draco feel better. It was easier to think of it as a meeting than as a reunion. “Of course I’ll come,” he said. “If you’ll promise to protect me.”

“It’s me that needs protecting,” Harry said, swallowing cheese. “Ron won’t quit poking my belly.”

“How does that belly feel, by the way?” Draco said, pressing his fingers into it experimentally. “You’ve finished off most of this brie and you’re not even tightening up yet.”

“I ate a gallon of cookie dough ice cream last night and barely even felt it,” Harry confessed. “I think my capacity’s growing. Along with the actual belly.”

“Why on earth did you eat that much ice cream? I gave you enough chocolate mousse to knock out a house elf.”

Harry shrugged, looking sheepish. “I don’t know. I just… I got hungry. Or, no, I haven’t been hungry in months, I just… wanted it.”

“You’ve gotten bigger since just last week,” Draco said. “Did you know that?”

“Draco, I honestly think I’ve gotten bigger since yesterday. I don’t even fit into my robes anymore.”

Draco scraped the last of the brie onto the last of the baguette. Harry’s belly had started to bloat, finally, after a party-sized worth of appetizers. Merlin, if he was eating gallons of ice cream when Draco wasn’t looking, it was no wonder he couldn’t fit his robes. He nibbled Harry’s earlobe and caressed the firm jut of his belly, playing with the bare swollen slice that was touching his thighs. His boyfriend looked so ostentatiously overfed; a far cry from the skinny wretch who’d surprised Draco in the breakroom nearly a year ago. He bit Harry’s neck, sucking the extra skin there, and Harry groaned. 

A horrible crack, and Draco jumped away as Kreacher arrived, so laden down with fish and chips that his face couldn’t be seen – there had to be at least eight orders worth. He deposited them on the coffee table, cracked away, and reappeared with salt, vinegar, and tartar sauce. 

“Is this enough for Master and Little Lord Malfoy?” he wheezed.

“Yes,” Harry said, “that should be more than enough. Thank you.”

“For dessert?” Kreacher wanted to know, and Draco laughed in delight. What an ally!

“Some kind of three-layer cake,” Draco said. “Preferably chocolate. And a side of cream.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Harry protested, surveying the piles and piles of golden friend food steaming in front of him. Already he was reaching for a handful of hot chips, greedy, greedy. “We’ve got this to get through, first.”

“Oh, I believe in you,” Draco said airily. “Anyway, your ex-girlfriend’s coming next week. Don’t you want to look your best?”


	6. Harry

Ginny let out a shriek when she saw Harry, and rushed him so enthusiastically he was worried she’d knock him over. 

“Merlin, I thought Hermione was the pregnant one! Ron told me you’d packed it on but I didn’t believe him! Look at you!”

“Look at you,” Harry said, a little breathless from her bonecracking embrace. “You look incredible.”

She did, too, strong and muscled with her ginger hair cut short and swooping across her gorgeous face. Behind her, Emmaline made an apologetic face. 

“This has to be, what, four stone?”

“As of yesterday,” Harry admitted, trying to refrain from touching the pushed-out swell of his own belly. “I know, I know, poke it all you want. Ron certainly does.”

Ginny didn’t need to be told twice. She held his belly in her hands and beamed at him as if he really was the pregnant one. “Sorry,” she said, “you’re just so fucking cute like this. Emmaline, is he not precious?”

“Precious,” Emmaline agreed, exchanging a smile with Harry. “You look good, Harry.”

“I look big,” Harry said ruefully. 

“I heard about this happening when people get promoted to management,” Ginny was babbling. “It’s all that paperwork, I imagine.”

“That,” Harry said, “and I’m dating an absolutely incredible cook.”

Ginny put her hands over her mouth. “I thought Ron was joking.”

“He wasn’t joking about this,” Harry said, patting his belly, “and he wasn’t joking about the other thing, either.”

“Draco Malfoy,” Ginny breathed. “You always did have a thing for him, you must be over the moon.”

“I didn’t have a thing for him,” Harry said indignantly. “I hated him!”

“You were absolutely obsessed with him,” Ginny corrected, swooping back in to pet Harry’s belly at its broadest point. “I suppose he likes this, does he? Pervy git.” 

“Can we put our things down, love?” Emmaline said to her. “Then you can give Harry a hard time.”

“Is he coming to family dinner tomorrow night?” Ginny called over her shoulder. She and Emmaline were tromping up the stairs with an energy Harry had lost two stone ago. He hoped they couldn’t see how winded he was getting. 

“Yes,” he said, pausing on the second floor landing to catch his breath. “He’s coming. You’ll be staying in this room, Gin.”

He was rewarded with a kiss from each of them and one last awestruck pat on the stomach from Ginny.

“We’ll get settled,” Ginny said, “and then you can fill us in on your absolutely scandalous love life. Plus I want to know all the auror gossip.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Harry said. “There’s cake.”

“Will there still be cake by the time we come down?”

Harry laughed. “Depends on how quick you are.”

“See you in five.”

:::

“Well,” Ginny said, looking Draco up and down. “You certainly grew up nicely.”

Harry watched Draco’s neck go pink. “Hello, Ginevra.”

Ginny slung an arm around Harry’s shoulder and lay her hand over his belly. “You’re the father, I assume?”

Draco laughed, visibly relaxing. “It was a team effort.”

With dawning horror, Harry realized that they were going to get along. He hadn’t fully accounted for this possibility. As if reading his mind, Ginny smiled wickedly and said, “So, does he still do that little screamy thing when you bite his –”

“Stop,” Harry begged. 

“You mean,” Draco tapped his knee.

“Okay, we’re all agreed that my knees are very sensitive, please can we get going?”

“Why the rush, darling?” Draco said. “Hungry?”

“He’s wasting away,” said Ginny sympathetically. 

Harry put his eyes to the ceiling. “This is my living nightmare. Emmaline, help.”

“C’mon, love,” Emmaline said, dragging Ginny off Harry and herding her towards the floo. “You don’t want me to get jealous.”

“She doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body, this one,” Ginny confided. “Sometimes her lack of jealousy makes me jealous.”

They disappeared into the floo together and Harry glanced at Draco. “Thank you,” he said. “For agreeing to come tonight. It means a lot. I know how you feel about… everything.”

Draco bit his lip. “It’s fine,” he said. He sounded dubious, and said it again, more convincingly. “It’s fine. I want to know your friends. You came out with Pansy when she was in town, and she’s absolutely horrible.”

“Ron’s a bit horrible, too.”

“Is he going to make a thing about your weight?”

“Probably.”

Draco grinned wickedly. “Good. That drives me wild.”

Harry laughed. “Ginny’s right, you are a pervy git.”

“Takes one to know one,” Draco said snidely, and they stepped through. 

They stumbled out into a scene of total chaos, everyone hugging and yelling and shrieking, and Harry realized he’d misjudged the scale of this dinner. It wasn’t just Ginny – it was Molly and Arthur, too, and Bill and Fleur, and George and his wife Niti, plus their terrible three year-old daughter, Freddy, who was sat in the middle of the room screaming her head off. 

“Oh god,” he said quietly. 

“Harry!” Molly cried, and then he was being ferociously kissed. “And Draco Malfoy, as I live and breathe.” Draco too was being kissed, and looking quite surprised about it. “It’s been ages, Harry, three months at least! Letters don’t cut it, I need to see your face every now and then!”

“Harry,” Arthur said, “Draco,” shaking both their hands very vigorously. “Have you heard the news?”

“Of course they’ve heard the news, Arthur!”

“Of course you have,” Arthur echoed. “Well, marvelous, isn’t it?”

“Oy, Harry,” George called. “You’ve packed it on, mate!”

“I told you!” Ron said. 

“Oh, don’t listen to them,” Molly beamed. “You look marvelous. I brought deviled eggs, do you like those?

Harry and Draco grinned at each other. “I like everything,” Harry said. 

“Well, you must be hungry,” Molly said, then flushed. “I don’t mean because you’ve – I only meant –”

“I am hungry,” Harry said. Then, because he knew what it would do to Draco, he put a hand to his belly. “I have put on four stone, though. Maybe I’d better not.”

“Nonsense!” Molly said, so affronted that Draco managed to smile even through the slightly strangled look he was giving Harry. “Here, I’ll make you a plate.”

“I hate you,” Draco murmured in Harry’s ear. 

“Hi Freddy,” Harry said to the screaming toddler as they passed. She stopped screaming very abruptly and turned her beautiful little face up to him. 

“I want a motorcycle,” she said clearly. 

“Ah,” Harry said. “Well, that’s –”

“You’re not old enough, Freddy,” George said, and she began screaming again. George beamed at her in delight and came to shake Harry and Draco’s hands. “Good to see you both. Malfoy, I hear you’re less of an absolute shit these days?”

“Depends which days,” Draco said, and George roared with laughter, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“You hurt him, I kill you!” he said cheerfully. 

Molly appeared with two plates piled high with deviled eggs, which Draco and Harry took dutifully. Hermione appeared behind her, looking harried and happy.

“Draco,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come.” She stood on tiptoe to put her arms around him, well-practiced with reaching Ron, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Thank you for having me,” Draco said somewhat stiffly, but Harry saw how pleased he was. 

“Hi,” Ron said abruptly, extending his hand, and Draco took it gingerly. “Draco sodding Malfoy and Harry sodding Potter, in soppy gay love. What a world.”

“Ron,” Hermione said warningly. She turned to Draco. “Isn’t he awful? I’m so sorry.”

“Well,” Ron said heavily, “bring it in.” And he took a very uncomfortable-looking Draco in his arms, delivering several powerful thumps to his back before releasing him. “Guess you’re part of the family now,” he said. “Can’t believe my kid’s going to call you Uncle Draco.”

“You’re making this so awkward,” Hermione scolded. 

“Harry, Hermione’s five months pregnant and I reckon you’ve got a bigger belly than she has,” Ron said. “’Mione, turn to the side!”

“Absolutely not!”

“I think Ron’s right, though,” Harry said, looking down at himself. 

“Well, not for long,” Hermione said consolingly. “I’m bigger by the hour, it seems!”

“Let’s get you sat down so you can stuff yourself on appetizers in peace,” Ron said, leading them to the couch. Harry reached out to steady himself on the sofa’s arm before lowering himself carefully down, trying not to simply fall back with a thud as he’d gotten accustomed to. He arched his back, letting his belly settle more comfortably atop his thighs, wincing a bit as he tucked a finger in his tightening waistband and tried to give himself more room. Too late he realized that the button-up flannel he’d worn was getting snug and the buttons strained around his mound of stomach when he sat, showing slices of the white t-shirt beneath it. 

“I think I’m bigger by the hour, too,” Harry said quietly, watching Draco’s face, which turned a wonderful pink. He put a deviled egg into his mouth, and quickly followed it up with three more, eating much more quickly than he’d normally do in public. Draco had taken a risk accompanying him tonight and he wanted to make it worth his boyfriend’s while. It took him barely a minute to clear the whole plate of six deviled egg halves and then start in on Draco’s. 

“Granger’s got four more months until she’s full term,” Draco said in his ear. “You think you can keep up?”

Harry balanced the plate on the crest of his belly, supporting it with one hand and stuffing two more eggs into his mouth in quick succession. 

“By then, you probably won’t even need your hands to hold a plate,” Draco said. 

Harry pushed another egg into his mouth, then another, taking advantage of the fact that for once, no one was looking at them. He finished the second plate with a little burp of triumph and Draco stacked the empties on the coffee table. He caught Ginny eyeing him from across the room and grinned at her. A moment later she was at his side, offering him a plate piled high with cheese and crackers.

“Thanks,” he said, tucking in. 

“Has no one offered you boys anything to drink?” she tutted. “What’ll it be?”

“Beer for me,” Harry said. “He’ll have white wine, if you’ve got any.”

“Coming right up,” Ginny said. 

“They’re not so bad,” Draco said grudgingly, watching Harry shovel cheese and crackers into his mouth. “The Weasleys.”

Harry smiled as Ginny reappeared with not only the drinks, but also a heavy plate of salami and more cheese, which she set on the coffee table in front of them. Harry leaned to reach for it, then paused, startled, when he realized how much his belly was getting in the way. Draco beat him to it, leaning with ease and holding it up for him. Harry nodded his thanks and piled salami onto a cracker, his face a bit red. It was all very well and good to joke about being nine months pregnant, but Merlin, he really was getting big, and fast. He ate another mouthful of cheese, another mouthful of salami, and looked down at how his stomach was creeping forward on his lap, not even full yet, but so round. The plate of cheese and crackers was clean now, and a few more bites finished off the salami. 

“’Arry,” Fleur said, swooping in so suddenly that he jumped. She kissed both his cheeks and then turned to Draco. “Oo is zis ‘andsome man!”

Harry introduced them, smirking to see that even Draco was a bit dazed by her beauty, touching the place on his cheek where her lips had been.

“’Arry,” she said reproachfully, and handed him an enormous piece of what appeared to be pumpkin cake. “You ‘ave gained so much weight.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, confused by the conflicting messages of cake and comment. He dug into the cake, which was absolutely terrible. “Did you make this?”

“Yes!” she said proudly. “It is good, no?”

“Delicious,” Harry said, choking down another bite. He wasn’t sure how butter and flour could turn out so wrong. It was so thick and dense it felt like glue in his mouth. 

“I myself cannot ‘ave it,” she said sadly. “Too many calories! This weight, it suits you, but not me.”

“I’m sure you’d be beautiful no matter –”

“You are nearly finished! I will get you more.”

“No, that’s all right, I --! Oh, dammit. That cake was disgusting.”

Draco was looking at him with raised brows. “You certainly ate it fast enough. All the Weasleys are bringing you food and telling you how big you’ve gotten, I’m practically vestigial.”

“Yes, but the Weasleys won’t fuck me senseless later,” Harry said, and had the pleasure of watching Draco choke on his white wine. 

Fleur came back with more cake, which Harry choked down half of before setting it aside for the plate of mini quiches that George brought over.

“You know, we are going to give you dinner,” Ron said, watching Harry inhale the bowl of potato crisps he’d just handed him. 

“You’re the one feeding me crisps,” Harry said, mouth full. 

“He’ll eat whatever you put in front of him, won’t he?” Ron said to Draco, and then, at Draco’s answering leer, “Oh, Merlin, I walked right into that one.”

Harry had just polished off the last crisp and was starting to feel pleasantly full when Hermione called them to the table. Dinner was simple but plentiful, great bowlfuls of pasta and a variety of sauces, plus bread and butter and a few vegetables that Harry didn’t bother with. He had a plate of pasta with alfredo, then a plate of pasta with marinara, then a plate of pasta with plenty of butter and cheese.

“And for his next trick,” Ron said, handing Harry a massive slice of heavily-buttered bread, “he’ll disappear half a loaf of sourdough!”

Harry hiccupped his thanks. He was quite full, now, and his fourth plate of pasta – alfredo again – was starting to look daunting. Everyone else was sipping their drinks and chatting; only Harry was still eating, a circumstance he was starting to get used to. He reached for his beer and felt his belly nudge the edge of the table, and imagined it several inches bigger, how he’d have to lean over it just to reach his food. Once again he had a flush of surprise at his own size, how very big he’d gotten, as if it had come out of nowhere. It had not, of course: he’d been gaining weight for quite some time, but it seemed that only recently he was really starting to feel it, to feel how heavy his belly was, how it was starting to get in the way of things, throwing him off balance. 

He swallowed the last bite of pasta and sat back with a groan. Draco was talking intently with Fleur about Merlin knew what, and for a while he just sat there, bathed in the chatter of his loved ones, floating on the pain in his belly and the haze from the beer, one hand rubbing the fullest part of his belly, which was stretched and aching. The straining button-up didn’t help. He met Ginny’s sympathetic eye and gave a helpless little smile. 

“How are you feeling?” Draco murmured in his ear.

“Bloody stuffed,” Harry sighed. 

“I’d imagine. I think you ate half the pasta on this table.”

“Draco,” Harry said. “I’m getting fat. Properly.”

Draco drew in a sharp breath and was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Is this news to you?”

“I think I’ve only just realized it.”

“What…” Draco was smiling a little. “What did you think was happening?”

“I thought I… was getting… a paunch? I honestly don’t know.”

Because they were in public, Draco did not lay a proprietary hand across his belly, as Harry knew he would’ve liked to do. Instead, he put a hand on Harry’s thigh and gave it a squeeze. “We ought to talk about this more in-depth later. Alone.”

“What are you two lovebirds whispering about over there?” Ron said darkly. 

“How fat I’ve let myself get,” Harry said baldly, and felt Draco’s fingers tighten painfully on his thigh. 

“Ah,” Ron said. “Well. All right.”

“It’s true,” Fleur said sadly. “Look at ‘is belly!”

“Oh shush,” Molly said. “Harry, I for one am thrilled to see you so comfortable. You were always such a thin child, it used to worry me awfully. This is much better, if you ask me.”

“I agree,” Ron said, and Harry looked at him in surprise. “Not,” Ron added, “that I’ll stop giving you shit about it.”

“Hear, hear,” said George, who was quite drunk. 

“I love it,” Ginny announced. “If Harry had looked like this when we were dating, I might’ve stayed with him.”

“C’mon Gin, he hasn’t got tits quite yet,” George said. 

Molly was getting misty-eyed, as she always did at the thought of Harry and Ginny’s breakup even though she quite liked Emmaline, and Harry hastened to change the subject.

“Molly,” he said, “I was thinking, maybe you could give Draco the recipe for that onion soup I like?”

“Then you’ll never come visit!” Molly said, but immediately started shouting the recipe across the table, and soon enough everyone was yelling at one another about something other than Harry’s weight, which suited him fine. 

It came up again, of course, when dessert was dished out, Ron piling so much sticky toffee pudding onto Harry’s plate that even Hermione started laughing. 

“No, look at him,” Ron said. “He can take it, can’t you, Harry?”

“Try me,” Harry said. 

By this time, most of the table had drunk a fair amount, save for poor Hermione. Harry’s belly was bloated not only with a fantastic amount of food but also with several strong beers, which had the converse effects of dulling the pain at the same time they added to it. He’d undone his jeans button around his second plate of pasta, and when the sticky toffee pudding landed in front of him he gave up and began undoing his flannel shirt, too. He had a perfectly nice white t-shirt underneath, after all, though it was a bit snug and showed off the deep hollow of his belly button. He sighed with relief as the flannel fell away, then blinked down at the solid heap of belly he’d uncovered. 

Fleur, who’d somehow swapped seats with Draco and was now sitting beside him, fluttered her fingers over Harry’s stretched-out navel. “May I?” she said, then gave him a gentle caress that had Draco glaring over her shoulder. 

“Bill?” she said.

“No,” Bill said, not looking up. 

“But you would look so ‘andsome,” she pleaded. 

“No, darling.”

Fleur pouted as Harry shifted forward, sighing a little. He really was remarkably stuffed already, though the sticky toffee pudding proved absolutely delicious. He licked cream from his lips, pressing a palm into the side of his belly to try and rustle up some room, and was rewarded with a burp, which he managed to stifle. It was amazing to think that he’d spent most of his childhood quite hungry, when now he had trouble recalling what hunger even felt like. God, his stomach felt so stretched-out, rounded to its limits. He wiped his brow and chugged some beer, hoping it would kill the pain a bit, but it only filled him up further. 

Draco was back at his side, one hand resting casually along the back of his chair, and Harry took a moment to look at him, how lovely he was, so cool and upright and calm. He quirked a questioning brow Harry’s way. 

“Struggling a bit,” he admitted quietly. 

“Do you want me to tell you to finish it, or quit?” Draco asked. 

Harry considered. “Finish.”

“Then stop stalling, and eat,” Draco said. “You’re nearly halfway through that bowl. You won’t let Weasley win, will you?”

As if on cue, Ron called, “How you doing there, Harry? I didn’t give you too much, did I?”

“No,” Harry said, trying not to sound too breathless. “No, this is perfect.”

“Good,” Draco murmured. “Another bite. Good. Merlin, you’re going to feel this tomorrow. Thank god you’ve got me to rub that gut of yours.”

“Thank god,” Harry agreed. He tried to find a more comfortable position, but his belly was so bloated and heavy that the only good position would have been lying down, preferably on his side, preferably with a heating pad tucked against the taut skin. 

“Looks like four more bites, go on. Beautiful, darling. Yes. One more. That’s it. Well done, my good boy.”

Harry slumped over his empty bowl, so full he could barely muster up a grin when Ron whooped at him. In a daze, he accepted a glass of firewhisky; in a daze, he watched people begin to trickle from the table back to the sitting room, and though he would have dearly loved to be on a couch, he didn’t feel up to standing just yet. Instead he sat, watching Draco and Hermione argue the finer points of Cursed Antique Resale law, and trying to rub away some of the tight discomfort of his middle. 

Eventually, Draco came over and looked him up and down. “Time for bed, I think.”

“Bed,” Harry agreed. 

“You’ll have to get up first, I’m afraid.”

Harry nodded grimly. He put one hand on the table and the other on the side of his belly and slowly, carefully, began to hoist himself out of the chair, belly-first. He felt like he’d gained a stone just over dinner. When he’d gotten himself upright he then had to submit to being kissed and hugged and belly-patted goodbye by everyone, Fleur caressing his round side, Ron giving him a firm poke, Ginny drunkenly resting her hand on the swollen push beneath his pecs. It was not unpleasant, necessarily, but he was glad when Draco had steered him firmly to the floo and nudged him in. 

“Very touchy-feely, those Weasleys,” Draco muttered, and they whooshed back to Grimauld place. 

Soon enough they were tucked in bed, Harry on his side in nothing but a pair of new, roomy boxers, Draco big-spooning him and reaching over with one long strong arm to rub his belly. It was mounded up faithfully beside him, taking up so much space that Harry felt another flicker of the alarm he’d felt over dinner. 

“You, er… you fancy me like this, don’t you?”

Draco’s hand paused, then resumed, its firm rubbing. “By ‘like this,’ do you mean rather fat?”

Harry felt himself blush in the dark. “Yes.”

Draco huffed a laugh, breath soft against the back of his neck. “I fancy it very, very much.” He squeezed Harry’s hip. “But I think the more important question is, do you fancy it?”

“I think so,” Harry said. 

“You think?”

“I mean, I did. But now… I’m really getting big. What you said earlier, about getting as big as Hermione will. That’s probably going to end up true, with how much I eat.”

“Say the word, and we’ll stop,” Draco said. “I’ll start making broccoli instead of cake, we can watch your portions, we can go on walks…”

Harry grimaced. “The problem is, I don’t want to stop eating as I have been. I love being packed this full, as mental as that may sound. It turns me on, you know that. And I love how much it turns you on, too.”

“You’d turn me on no matter what,” Draco said fiercely. 

Harry smiled into his pillow. “Okay, but even without… the sexual component… I really do enjoy eating. Overeating, I should say. I don’t want to go on a bloody diet, that sounds awful. And I like situations like tonight, I like when people notice, when they see how much I’ve eaten and can’t believe it. I can’t explain it, but it really pleases me. But then I see how big I’ve gotten and I’m embarrassed. I don’t know. I’m confused.”

Draco pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, and he sighed. 

“I’ve gained over four stone, Draco. How much more do you think I’d have to pack on to match Hermione when she’s full-term?”

“Hmm,” Draco said, tracing the curve of Harry’s tummy. “Honestly? Two, maybe three.”

Harry felt obscurely cheered by this. Two stone was a lot. He might easily plateau before then, mightn’t he?

“I don’t want to stop,” he said, almost petulantly. 

“Then we won’t.”


	7. Draco

“Is it just me,” Wendy said to Draco one afternoon several weeks later, “or is your boy-toy, my esteemed boss, looking extra-round today?”

Draco watched Harry from across the room. He was delivering what was supposed to be a stern lecture to one of his aurors, but looked much more like a gentle therapy session. Harry’s arms were crossed atop his belly, resting on it as he nodded sympathetically, and his button-up shirt was unbuttoned over a green t-shirt, which was snug enough that the folded arms had rucked it up, exposing the bloated slice of underbelly that jutted out over his waistband. He nodded again and Draco admired the little pillow of flesh that gathered under his chin as he did so. He was standing ever-so-slightly swaybacked, trying to accommodate the weight of his big tummy, which was a new posture for him. 

“It’s not just you,” Draco said. 

“That t-shirt’s on its last legs,” she noted. 

“I tried to tell him that this morning, but he’s in denial.”

“I see why, it’s a good color on him. Can’t you swap it out for a larger size when he’s not looking?”

That actually wasn’t a bad idea. “I could, in fact. Thank you.”

“Poor man,” she said. “Discipline is not his strong suit. I’m going to rescue him.”

She made her way across the auror’s office, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder and whispering something in his ear. Harry nodded brusquely, pushed his glasses up his nose, and dismissed his auror, then followed her back up to her secretary’s desk. Draco admired the way his belly bounced gently beneath his t-shirt, the fabric sliding upwards as he walked. 

“Wendy said you needed to speak with me?” Harry said. 

“Yes,” Draco said. “In your office.”

Harry darted a glance at Wendy, who whistled at the ceiling and didn’t look at them, and a moment later they were in Harry’s office with the door locked behind them, Draco straddling Harry’s lap. 

“Hmm,” Draco said, stroking his hands down Harry’s round sides. “This lap feels smaller.”

“I’ve put on another five kilos,” Harry said, red-faced. 

Carefully, Draco said, “How are you feeling?”

“Fat.”

“I mean, you know. Er – emotionally.”

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Still can’t quite believe this is all me,” he said. He jostled the belly in his shrinking lap. “I got out of breath climbing seven stairs today.”

Draco shifted so Harry would not feel the beginnings of his erection, but Harry laughed and pulled him closer. 

“Dropped my wand today,” Harry went on. “Had to maneuver for a bit until I could figure out how to bend over far enough to get it. Got all this belly in the way.”

Draco was rocking against him now, helpless, his cock pressing up against the fat curve of Harry’s gut, Harry’s hands on his slim hips. 

“I was in the papers yesterday, did you see?” he said. “The Boy Who Ate. Oddly complimentary, actually. Nice to see him happy, was the gist.”

“It is, nice,” Draco panted. Harry’s hands were at his waistband now, nimbly undoing the buckle of his belt, and for some time there was no more conversation. 

Afterwards Draco, draped across Harry’s desk now, said, “Oh! I forgot to tell you. You’re rich.”

Harry blinked owlishly behind his glasses. “Excuse me?”

“That armoire, the one that grew teeth and tried to eat anyone who came near it? I got the curse off yesterday and sold it today. Seven hundred thousand galleons. Not quite the million you promised me, but…”

“Wait,” Harry said, trying to sit up straighter in his desk chair. “You aren’t joking?”

“Not at all,” Draco said. “And that’s only the first piece. I’m working on that hypnotic painting next. So, no pressure, naturally, but if you’d like to start re-doing Grimauld place, I’m happy to consult.”

Harry gaped at him. “Are you mad? Of course I want to re-do it. Merlin, you’ll have a fight on your hands with Kreacher, though.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Draco said. “I rather think Kreacher and I are on the same team, generally.”

“You,” Harry said, hoisting himself to his feet and leaning awkwardly over his belly to kiss Draco, “are incredible.”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Aside from killing the Dark Lord.”

“Aside from killing Voldemort, yes. Ugh, how did I fall in love with someone who calls him the Dark Lord?”

“Old habit.” Draco sat up and began putting his clothes back on. Harry, perfectly clothed, thudded back down into his chair and began rummaging around in his desk drawer for a snack. He found a stash of chocolate frogs and began munching. Draco took a deep breath and said, “My mum. She wants to meet you.”

Harry paused, then unwrapped another frog. “We’ve met.”

“Right,” Draco said. “Well, she wants you to come for dinner. At the Manor.”

Harry said, very calmly, “The last time I was at the Manor, several of my friends were tortured.”

“I know.” Draco bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I told her it was idiotic, I shouldn’t even have asked you.”

“What about your flat?”

Draco blinked. “Sorry?”

“Look, I don’t mind having dinner with your mum. I mean, I’ll be honest, there’s no love lost between us, but I’d have said that about you a year ago, and now look at us.” Harry rested a hand on his belly. “I’m not going to the Manor, though.”

Relief flooded Draco’s body. “That’s fair. That’s absolutely fair. Really, you’ll have dinner with her? I could invite Pansy too, she’s in town next week and my mum’s mad about her.”

“Please, surround me with Slytherins,” Harry said. 

“No Pansy, then?”

“Nah, invite her,” Harry said. “She’s always good for a laugh, and I’ll feel better if it’s not just me and your mum in a staring contest.” 

“What about next Thursday?” Draco’s mind was racing. “I’ll roast a couple chickens, some new potatoes, nothing fancy. Maybe a trifle. And then something for when they’re gone – lasagna’s always good, isn’t it?”

“Are you planning me a second dinner?” Harry said, wide-eyed. “Why? You don’t want your mum to see the way I eat?”

“I don’t want to let her into my life any more than I have to,” Draco said. “She’s… well, you’ve heard me talk about her, she’s quite judgmental.”

“Draco, I hate to break it to you,” Harry said, “but I’m getting rather fat, and I don’t think she’ll miss it.”

“That won’t bother her,” Draco said. “So long as she doesn’t think it’s got anything to do with me. It’s me she’ll judge, not you.”

Harry gave him a look so soft and sympathetic that Draco looked away. But aloud he only said, “Fine.”

“We’ll have Pansy come over early, we can all get a bit drunk.”

“You are really selling this.”

“I’m just being realistic.”

“Well,” Harry said. “Realistically – what should I wear?”

:::

“—And then,” Pansy sputtered, “and then he looks up, mouth still dripping from my cunt, and asks if I want to –” she was laughing too hard to continue, “—to – to – learn to rollerblade!”

Draco was laughing so much tears were streaming down his cheeks, and at his side Harry was gripping his belly, laughing helplessly and saying, “Oh god, that hurts, stop –" 

“Draco,” Pansy said, “Draco, you’ve got to call your mum and cancel, we are absolutely drunk.”

“She’ll probably show up loaded, herself. Not exactly a teetotaler, my mum.”

“The difference is, we’re drinking crap rosé and she’ll have put down a hundred galleons worth of champagne. Harry, pet, how’s the gateau?”

“Incredible,” Harry said. 

Pansy, who was living in France, had brought them a cake so gorgeous it had been decided that Harry should eat it right then and there, before Narcissa arrived. 

“That way you won’t be hungry,” Pansy said, “and your mood will be less likely to take a nosedive when Narcissa complains about Muggle rights.” 

It was very hard logic to argue with, so Harry was tucked onto the couch with the cake platter, not bothering with a plate, looking absolutely ravishing in a green cashmere jumper and black jeans Draco had begged him to buy. His eyes were the color of fresh leaves and his hair was behaving itself beautifully, thanks to every grooming charm Pansy had ever learned. He looked so good it was almost painful, and Draco found himself clenching his fists. 

“Have another bite,” Harry said, and Draco accepted a forkful, because it really was magnificent cake.

“I’m still floored by how much weight you’ve put on,” Pansy said, who was herself sylph-thin and so blond she nearly glowed. “I saw you, when was it – six months ago? Seven? You were getting a bit of a belly but now it’s your main feature!”

Harry hiccupped. The cake was almost gone, and Draco had watched him drink quite a lot of wine. He reached over to tousle his hair fondly, then stopped at Pansy’s warning look, and withdrew. Mustn’t mess with the hair, he repeated to himself. 

“I know,” Harry said, clearly weary of this conversation. “I’ve put on about six stone altogether.”

“Six?” Draco said avidly. 

“Put on another three and a half kilos the past week and a half, so yes, just about six. Maybe even a hair over.”

“That’s eighty-four American,” Draco murmured, unable to help himself. Eighty-four just sounded so much more impressive than five.

“Stone is so much more evocative than pound, don’t you think?” Pansy said, leaning a head on her hand and gazing at Harry. “You look like you’re carrying stones in there, not pounds.”

“Feel like it, too,” Harry said. “Can barely tie my own bloody shoes anymore. This one’s started doing it.”

“I like tying your shoes,” Draco said dreamily. 

“Of course you do,” Pansy smirked. “Probably get yourself off to it after Harry goes to work.”

Draco drank more wine instead of answering. 

“So how much do you weigh, total?” Pansy wanted to know. 

“About twenty stone, give or take.”

“Oh my god,” Pansy said reverently. “I’m barely nine.”

They all sat there contemplating this until Draco said, “I’m getting us all some water. Harry, can you do an impression of a man who did not just eat an entire cake?”

Gamely, Harry licked his lips free of chocolate and sat up straighter on the couch and dropped his hand from where he’d been absentmindedly petting his belly. 

“Very good. Pansy, can you give us a girl who’s got a pure soul and a clean mouth?”

“Draco, your mum’s met me. She’ll think I’m cursed if I go pure-soul on her.”

“Hmm, point. Harry, kiss me, I’m getting nervous.”

Harry tilted his face up and Draco kissed him anxiously, then forced himself to slow down and properly enjoy it. He ran his tongue over that little white scar he so loved, tasting chocolate, and put a hand to Harry’s face.

“Don’t touch the hair!” Pansy shrieked, and Draco yanked his hand away. It had been going, by instinct, to thread itself through Harry’s black waves. “Christ,” Pansy complained. “I haven’t been laid in a month, could you kindly refrain from kissing each other like that? Unless you follow it up by proposing a threesome. Which I’d say yes to, by the way. If it were on offer.”

Harry and Draco glanced at each other speculatively, but the floo began to sputter before any conclusions could be reached. Harry got laboriously to his feet while Pansy whisked the evidence of cake away, and then they hung back as Draco stood before the floo and waited to greet his mother. 

Narcissa, seventy years old, silver haired, perfumed to within an inch of her teeth and glittering with jewels, presented her cheek to be kissed. “Hello Draco, darling.”

“Hello, mum. Thanks for coming.”

She was already pushing past him into the flat. “Pansy, you are absolutely stunning,” she pronounced. Then she looked at Harry, and Draco found he was holding his breath. Harry reddened under her gaze, his hands in his pockets, leaning back a bit to counterbalance his belly, looking so sweet and nervous and delicious that Draco wanted to pounce on him. 

“Harry Potter,” she said. “Well, you’ve certainly grown.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Narcissa,” he said.

“I’m sure it’s not,” she said, still scrutinizing him. “You know, the last time we saw each other, you’d just saved my son’s life. And now you’re sleeping with him!”

“Er – yes,” Harry said. 

“Well, it shows strength of character,” Narcissa said, nodding approvingly. “Forgive and forget, no?”

“Er – yes,” Harry said again. 

She turned back to Draco, who let out a breath of pure relief. That hadn’t been so bad at all. “Darling, I brought champagne, hurry and put it in the fridge.”

Dinner lasted exactly one hour – “As long as any meal should last, not a minute more,” Narcissa said emphatically to Harry. And Harry, who Draco had personally seen take over three hours for dinner, nodded importantly and said, “I could not agree more.”

True to form, Narcissa spent much of the meal criticizing: the lighting, the glassware, Draco’s tattoos, the herbs he’d used to roast the chicken, his lack of house elf. Normally this would drive Draco up a wall, but Harry’s calm presence steadied him, and most of rolled off his back. The bottle of wine he’d had before she arrived didn’t hurt, either. 

“I suppose Draco’s been feeding you,” Narcissa said, looking down her nose at Harry’s belly. “The boy’s always liked heavy foods. Can’t make a salad to save his life.”

“Draco’s a very good cook,” Harry said neutrally. 

“Apparently,” she said.

“Narcissa,” said Pansy, “did I tell you about the awful way they treated me at Madame Malkin’s last week? I nearly had to get someone fired, the service was so atrocious.”

“Do tell,” Narcissa said, shifting her attention. She adored a good story about bad service.

Thank you, Draco mouthed across the table, and Pansy flipped her blond hair. 

After Narcissa had vanished into the floo, Draco collapsed onto a couch. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Pansy said consolingly, kneeling to pet his hair. 

“Define bad,” Draco said, then relented. “It could have been much worse. I think she likes Harry, actually. She’s always a soft touch for a celebrity.”

“Hey,” Harry said. “I’m likeable aside from… that. I did save your life, you know.”

“And he’ll never let me forget it,” Draco said to Pansy. He sat up and said, “Does my hero want some lasagna?”

“He might have a piece or two,” Harry said with dignity. 

“A piece or two?” Pansy said. “Don’t hold back on my account, I’ve already watched you eat a whole cake. And what’s more, I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” said Harry, smiling.


	8. Threesome, agh!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco and Pansy all have sex, whatttt you've been warned

“Bring the wine!” Pansy called after Draco as he slid the lasagna into the oven. Then he heard her say, “So, about that threesome.”

He hurried back to find Pansy sitting on Harry’s knee, one hand resting on his belly. Harry looked terrified – terrified, and turned-on. Draco knew that look. 

“That’s something to be discussed between Harry and myself,” he said coldly. 

“You didn’t bring the wine,” Pansy noted. “I’ll go fetch us three glasses, and while I’m in the kitchen, have your little chat.”

She disappeared around the corner and Harry said, “I’m – uh – I’d –”

“You’re already half-hard just thinking about it, aren’t you,” Draco said resignedly. 

“Er –”

“Fine,” he said dramatically. “I suppose I might as well put this theoretical bisexuality into practice.”

“It’s not theoretical,” Pansy hollered. “Are you forgetting we’ve shagged?”

“That was ages ago!” Draco yelled back.

In answer there was a foreboding clatter. Then Pansy yelled, “This lasagna’s hot, should we feed it to him and then see what happens?”

“Are you two going to shout the whole time?” Harry shouted. “Because if so, I’m out.”

“He likes it quiet and gentle,” Draco yelled.

“Not true!” Harry shouted. 

Pansy reappeared, floating three glasses, a bottle of wine, one fork, one plate, and the pan of lasagna. Draco hurried to arrange his coasters to accommodate the hot pan while Pansy settled herself back on Harry’s lap, snuggling around the round swell of his belly. She looked so slight compared to him, blond where he was dark, small where he was thick, and Draco felt his interest begin to stir in earnest. 

“May I?” Pansy asked, loading lasagna onto the plate. 

“Go ahead,” Harry said, looking a bit nervous. 

“He can take it faster than that,” Draco said impatiently, after a few minutes watching Pansy slowly levering lasagna into his boyfriend’s mouth, and she obediently picked up the pace. 

“Aren’t you full at all? You’ve had a whole cake and half a chicken.”

“A bit,” Harry agreed. “But I’m still rather hungry.”

“You’re full, and you’re hungry.”

Harry nodded, his mouth too full of lasagna to talk.

“So,” Pansy said after Harry had cleaned his first plate and started in on the second. “Where exactly in this process does the sex usually start?”

Draco smirked. “Well,” he said. “You might help him along a bit by kissing his neck. What do you think, Harry?”

Harry didn’t answer, too busy gasping as Pansy began nibbling along his jawline. 

“Actually,” Draco said, feeling inspired, and reached forward for the plate. “I’ll keep feeding him this lasagna if you’ll keep kissing him.”

“Anywhere?” Pansy asked Harry, looking delighted. 

“Don’t ask him, ask me,” Draco said. 

“Ooooh, got it.” Pansy bounced a bit on Harry’s knee. “Anywhere, Draco?”

“Anywhere,” Draco confirmed, though he met Harry’s eyes to make sure. Harry nodded fervently and attempted to swallow the enormous bite Draco had just fed him. 

Pansy cupped one of Harry’s soft pecs through his jumper and began sucking on his neck as Draco filled a third plate. She bit his ear gently. She pushed his jumper up and then slid between his legs to kiss his belly, swirling her tongue through the fine hair that trailed from his belly button and disappeared down the waistband of his pants. Harry was getting full now, the cake catching up to him, Draco could tell, and he made small, hurt noises as he started on his fourth plate. Pansy stroked the pink lines that framed his gut like suspenders, and while Harry started on a fifth plate, she pushed his belly up to unzip his jeans.

Draco nearly dropped the plate several times, transfixed. It was bizarre and incredibly sexy to watch this beautiful woman do to Harry what he did every night. 

“How are you doing up there?” she asked. “Full yet?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice thready. “So fucking full.”

Pansy began kissing her way back up his belly, pausing to suck on the soft flesh below his navel. “One last plate,” she said. “Then I’ll take my top off.”

“I’ve eaten half the pan already,” Harry said.

“Well, then I think you can manage one more serving.”

Harry moaned around the next forkful, arching his back in discomfort, and as Pansy shoved his jumper up high enough to suck one of his peaked pecs into her mouth, Draco began to rub Harry’s belly with firm, even strokes. 

“Good,” Draco murmured. “Almost there.”

“So full,” Harry gasped. 

“I know you are. Just a few more bites. Does that feel good, what she’s doing? Yes? It’ll feel even better when her top’s off. Eat, Harry. Good. One last bite. Perfect.”

“Gold star,” Pansy said, and began unbuttoning the blue silk blouse she was wearing, letting it slide off her shoulders and pool to the floor. “Draco, would you do the honors?”

Draco set down the empty plate and reached down to unhook her bra, and she shrugged out of it, turning so her full, lovely breasts spilled out into Draco’s hands. He thumbed one of her hard nipples, then reached down and palmed his cock as she pulled herself slowly up Harry’s body, her tits teasing the painfully taut skin of his full belly.

“Let’s get you out of this jumper, hmm,” Draco murmured, and Harry leaned forward over his belly enough that Draco could pull the jumper off. Bare, his belly looked enormous and pale, a swollen moon, and Harry pressed a palm soothingly against it. 

“You’re so fucking round,” Pansy said in awe. “I’ve never slept with anyone as big as you.”

“I’m so fucking full, is what,” Harry said, and looked at Draco through lowered lashes, an invitation Draco took gladly, leaning forward to catch his mouth in a bruising kiss. 

Pansy slapped Harry’s belly lightly. “Hips,” she said, and Harry canted his hips so she could tug off his jeans, not without some difficulty on both their parts. By the time she was done, Harry was panting. 

“If you want me to fuck you,” Pansy purred from between his legs, “I’m gonna need you flat on a couch. Your belly’s too big in this chair.”

“What?” Harry said, looking adorably startled, and he tried to peer around the mound of tummy that blocked his view of her head. 

“C’mon,” Draco said, reaching for him, and Harry let himself be hauled to his feet. 

“While I’m up here, let’s take this off,” Harry said, and pushed Draco’s shirt off, his big belly nudging up against Draco’s flat torso. Draco reached down and held onto the domelike underside, hefting its considerable weight in his hands as he kissed Harry deeply. Pansy came up behind Harr, running her hands down his broad shoulders appreciatively and squeezing the thick spare tire that now encircled his waist, a crease of fat that went around his back. 

“Are you gonna fuck her?” Draco asked.

“Would that be – do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to fuck me, Harry?” Pansy said.

In answer, Harry turned towards her, angling his belly to one side so he could pull her close and cup one of her beautiful breasts, lowering his head to lick a stripe across her nipple before sucking it into his mouth. It absolutely killed Draco that he had to stand sideways to do this, and to kiss her, her arms entwined around his neck. 

“Big strong auror,” Pansy panted. “I used to be a dark witch, you know. Are you going to punish me?”

Draco found, to his horror, that this got him so hard he had to unzip his trousers immediately and take himself in his hand. He saw Harry notice this over Pansy’s shoulder and grin. 

“Yes,” Harry said. “But first I have to search you.” 

Harry thudded heavily down onto the couch in front of her, running his hands up her thighs. They disappeared into the darkness of her skirt, and a moment later, Pansy gasped in unfeigned pleasure. 

“Dark magic,” Harry growled, and unfastened Pansy’s skirt, pulling it down so roughly she had to steady herself with a hand on his back. She stepped out of it, in just high heels and panties now, and Draco groaned as he watched Harry pull her forward so he could mouth her cunt through the lace of her panties, one hand steadying her on her hip, the other hand dipping beneath that lace, thumb finding her clit. 

“Oh god,” Pansy moaned. 

“Very dark magic,” Harry said, tugging down her panties and leaning forward over his gut to taste her. Her knees went visibly weak. “Draco,” Harry said. “Come help me. She’s dangerous and I’m too fucking full to take her down myself.”

Draco, who in all honestly would have been perfectly content just to watch, came forward as Harry leaned back against the couch cushions, belly shifting to reveal his thick, gorgeous cock, hard and glistening.

“Am I going to have to restrain you so you don’t run away?” Draco said, reaching around Pansy’s body to cover his breasts with his big hands. He let her feel how hard he was against her ass. 

“Yes,” Pansy said, “yes, I’m going to try to escape.”

Draco bit her neck and began manhandling her towards where Harry lay back on the couch, looking swollen and indolent and so fucking sexy. She straddled his thick waist, Draco behind her, and she leaned forward to grip Harry’s lovehandles as she sank down onto him, both her and Harry gasping as she began to ride him. 

Draco kept his grip on her, letting the friction of her rocking body tease his leaking cock, fumbling until he found a rhythm on her clit as she fucked down onto his boyfriend, who was too full to do much of anything except lie there, belly pinning him down as he panted and moaned. 

“Oh god,” Pansy gasped. “Oh fuck, oh god, oh god I’m gonna –”

“Come,” Draco said in her ear, and she did, crying out as she stuttered and clenched over Harry’s cock. Draco could feel the contractions of her muscles beneath his hand, and a moment later, Harry too cried out, throwing his head back as he came. 

Eventually Pansy rolled off him and stretched out at his side, wedged between his body and the back of the couch, arm draped across his chest. His belly was heaving as he tried in vain to catch his breath. Draco was only too happy to finish himself off to this sight, and at a nod from Harry, he spurted across that stretchmarked flesh with a hoarse groan. 

“Well, that was batshit,” Pansy said a while later, wrapped in one of Draco’s (many) silk kimonos and sipping the champagne Narcissa had left in the fridge. “I haven’t had that kind of fun in a while.”

“Thanks for suggesting it,” Harry said, polite as if thanking her for a movie recommendation.

Draco was on the couch, Harry tucked between his legs and leaning back against his chest, a pint of ice cream propped against his belly as he spooned it tiredly into his mouth. Draco stroked his firm stomach with one idle hand, admiring Pansy’s bare legs splayed across his nicest armchair. 

“Literally can’t believe you’re eating again,” Pansy said. 

“Me neither,” Harry sighed. “But sex always makes me hungry.”

“You guys must have a lot of sex,” Pansy said, eyeing him. 

“We do,” Draco said, and thumbed a creamy droplet off Harry’s chest, offering his thumb for Harry to suck clean. 

Pansy yawned hugely. “Well boys,” she said. “Congratulations, you wore me out. I’m going to bed.” 

“Night, Pans,” Draco said, and caught her by the wrist as she passed, pulling her down to kiss her chastely on the forehead. 

“Your relationship with your best friend is very different from mine,” Harry commented, scraping his spoon around the nearly-empty pint. 

“What,” Draco said, “you never entertained the idea of a Granger-Weasley sandwich?”

“Please,” Harry said, pained. “I’m eating.”

Draco laughed quietly, and gave him a quick squeeze. 

“Carry on,” he said.


	9. Harry

“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry blurted out. “You’re huge!”

“I know,” Hermione said happily, giving him and then Draco a kiss. “Everyone’s shocked when I tell them I still have a month to go. I hope it means my baby’s lovely and fat.”

“Blimey, Harry, this place looks amazing,” Ron said, turning in an awed circle. “It’s like a different house.”

“It was all Draco,” Harry said, leading them into newly-designed sitting room. “I gave him free reign.”

“My god,” Hermione gasped. “Oh, will you please come to ours and help? We’re both hopeless with anything except the kitchen.”

“Most important room of the house,” Draco said reassuringly. “Here, Granger, sit.”

Hermione plopped down on the couch, still admiring the changed atmosphere, and Harry sat beside her, hands on his knees as he carefully lowered himself down with an involuntary “oof.” Hermione gave him an understanding smile. 

“Does your back hurt, ever?” she asked, putting her hands on her lower back. “Right here?”

“Merlin, yes,” Harry said. “And I can’t lie on my front anymore, so I can’t even get Draco to rub it for me.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “It’s terrible! And my feet have been killing me, too.”

“What about your sides?” Harry asked, rubbing the tender skin of his waist and ribcage. “I get achy right here, from carrying all this extra weight.”

“Yes, and right here, even,” Hermione said, “right around the belly button.”

“Mine gets itchy sometimes,” Harry confessed. “I think because it’s so stretched.”

“I get that too!” Hermione said. 

“Hang on,” Ron said. “Are you two comparing symptoms? Because Harry, I hate to tell you, I think you might actually be a bit bigger than my eight months pregnant wife.”

Harry looked incredulously at Hermione’s belly, which seemed impossibly round. Then he looked down at his own belly, and swallowed. It too, was extraordinarily round. Well, he knew that. But Hermione had to spread her legs when she sat down just to make enough room for her belly to settle between them, and – Harry checked himself. His legs were indeed slightly spread, fat undercurve of his tummy pushing them apart to make room for itself. He tried to measure how far her belly was from her knees, and found that in fact it didn’t go as far on her thighs as he would have imagined. His own belly, he realized, was about an inch further out than Hermione’s. 

“Well,” Harry said, feeling slightly stunned. “I guess I got huge, too.”

“Drinks?” Draco offered, and called for Kreacher to take everyone’s order. 

Harry accepted a beer and watched as Kreacher set down a spread of appetizers – a cheese plate, a dish of olives, a platter of smoked meat, a plate of sausages on toothpicks, a baguette sliced and buttered. They were on the coffee table before him, right at his knees. He watched as Hermione slid to the edge of the couch and spread her legs even further, leaning awkwardly around her belly to start filling herself a plate as Ron and Draco sipped beer and made smalltalk about George’s latest business venture. Harry, too, slid to the edge of the couch. He had to hold his breath to lean forward enough to put together a plate of food, and even with his legs spread wide his belly squished up on his lap and left him breathless. At his side, Hermione appeared unwinded. She had her plate partially balanced on her belly, but needed one hand to hold it in place. Harry, very casually, rested his own plate on the crest of his tummy, and found to his shock that it decidedly did not need any hands. It sat comfortably on the shelf of fat. 

He leaned back against the couch cushions to eat, too rattled to participate much in the conversation, which was mostly about home decorating anyway. Yet again he felt blindsided by how big he’d gotten, and realized he had no idea how he looked to others. He looked at Hermione and thought, My god that’s a big belly – but all evidence suggested that his was, in fact, bigger. 

He ran through the math. It was true he’d put on another two and a half stone in the past few months, which made three and a half altogether since Draco had made the comment about outpacing Hermione. That was more, in fact, than what Draco had predicted. Harry cleaned his plate as he considered this, barely noticing when Draco took it from him to quietly refill it. 

Kreacher announced dinner shortly after, and everyone got up to file into the dining room. Hermione planted her hands on her knees and heaved herself up on the first try, but Harry found he needed a bit more momentum, leaning back and forth a few times and then lurching upright, belly throwing him off balance. Draco caught his expression and gave him a questioning look, but Harry shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. 

In the dining room, Hermione managed to skooch her chair closer to the table than Harry, whose belly was mounded about a foot in front of him and blocked his access unless he spread his legs wide, and even then he had to lean over it to reach his plate. 

Merlin, I’m enormous, he realized. He was twenty-three stone and feeling every ounce. 

Dinner was a joint effort between Draco and Kreacher, a huge pot of beef bourgeon with sides of buttered noodles and buttered peas, with the requisite loaves of bread and butter. The good food and good conversation distracted Harry from his self-involved thoughts, and he let Draco fill and refill his plate until the others had long since stopped eating and his belly was even more roundly swollen and aching than it had been. He draped an arm over it, sighing in satisfaction and fullness as he watched Draco dish him up one last plateful. 

“I am,” Harry said, tucking in, “so stuffed.”

“There’s a cure for that,” Ron said. “Stop eating?”

“Mmm,” Harry said through a mouthful of beef. 

Ron, who was seated next to him, snuck a hand over and placed it on Harry’s gut. “You’re softer than ‘Mione,” he said, “but not by much. Same water balloon feel.”

Draco, next to Hermione, did the same thing to her belly, and she laughed. “You’re right,” he said to Ron. “Harry’s a bit more solid, though.”

“He’s fatter, that’s for sure.”

They had dessert around the fireplace, drinking tea and firewhisky and eating cookies until Hermione was nodding off and Harry was too full to carry on a proper conversation. 

“Come on,” Draco said, extending his hands, “get up and say goodbye to our guests.”

Harry took his hands and Draco braced against his weight as he let himself be hoisted up, smiling down at him with such fondness that it took Harry a moment to realize why the look was familiar.

It was the way Ron looked at Hermione. 

Suddenly, all of Harry’s doubts seemed petty and pointless. Yes, he’d gotten quite fat. Yes, he’d probably get fatter. But somehow he’d been given the priceless gift of Draco’s love, and it was hard to convince himself that anything else much mattered in the face of that miracle. 

He hugged Hermione goodbye, both of then laughing as they carefully angled their bellies so they could embrace, then shook hands with Ron. 

“Next week?” Ron said. “Ours?”

“We’ll be there,” Harry said. 

After they’d gone, Draco turned to Harry and said, “What’s going through that head of yours?”

Harry stepped into Draco’s side, admiring his boyfriend’s slim torso compared to his own round, swollen frame as Draco put an arm around him. “I am actually fatter than Hermione, aren’t I.”

“Hermione’s not fat, she’s with child.”

“Yeah, she’s pregnant, and I’m bigger than she is.”

Draco placed a hand on the side of Harry’s belly. “Yes, a bit.”

“Just checking.”

“Does it upset you?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so. Keeps surprising me, somehow, how big I’ve let myself get.”

“Surprises me sometimes, too,” Draco said. 

Curious, Harry turned to him. “How so?”

“Oh, little things.” Draco was rubbing his knuckles up and down Harry’s side now. “You take up more space in bed, and now and then I’ll reach for you but find your belly’s in the way. I tried to sit on your lap the other day but it’s too small now to be comfortable – that belly again. And sometimes I’ll catch sight of you at work and I won’t recognize you. I’ll think, Merlin, look at that gut, and then I realize I’m looking at you.”

“How does it feel?” Harry said. “When you’re surprised like that?”

Draco laughed. “Are you joking? It gets me hard.”

“Me too,” Harry breathed, because it was true, his cock was twitching to attention in his tight jeans. 

“Let’s take this conversation to bed,” Draco said. 

They made their way up the stairs slowly, Harry deliberately taking his time, noticing how much of an effort it was, how heavily his belly weighed on him, how he gripped the railing and lost his breath halfway through. Noticing, and savoring. He’d gotten so bloody big and when he wasn’t in his head about it, he could admit it felt amazing. Felt amazing to sit on the edge of the bed and let Draco unlace his shoes; amazing to shuck his jeans at the end of a long day and let Draco kiss the red marks left by his waistband; amazing to flop down onto the bed and curl around a full belly; amazing to wake up every morning with Draco’s hand gentle on his bloated tummy, morning wood pressed up into the crook of Harry’s chunky ass.

Never in his life had Harry actually felt like what every called him: the Chosen One. Never, until now, chosen by Draco sodding Malfoy, of all people. 

“How’s it feeling in there?” Draco asked, smoothing both strong palms down the bow of Harry’s belly as he sat against the headboard. 

“Tight,” Harry said, yawning. “Achy.”

“Want me to kiss it better?” 

“Kiss me all you want,” Harry said, and smiled. “But you know what? It’s already better.”


End file.
